


In The Fields of Asphodel (My Regrets Follow You to the Grave)

by kai_n_ali



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Antisemitism, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Neglect, Digital Art, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Flower Imagery, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Jewish Character, LGBTQ Female Character, Lizzie Stark Deserves Better, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Organized Crime, Orphanage, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, S4 AU, Season/Series 04, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Strong Female Characters, Women Being Awesome, about a month after the shelbys' arrest in s3, attempting historical accuracy, directed towards the main character, flower shop, to be clear, tommy and eleanor being together is endgame, two bitchy people pining after each other, we give the girls and the gays what they deserve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25882822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kai_n_ali/pseuds/kai_n_ali
Summary: Eleanor Blum didn't know what to think of this man, this Peaky Blinder devil that made all of Small Heath cower before him, this almost-stranger with his dead wife and dead stare, but she wished he'd stop showing up at the flower shop she worked in. And that he'd stop looking at her with those blue eyes of his.Follows aftermath of Season 03 throughout Season 04.
Relationships: Minor Jessie Eden/Original Female Character, Original Female Character & Ada Shelby, Original Female Character & Arthur Shelby, Original Female Character & Charlie Shelby, Tommy Shelby/Original Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), past Tommy Shelby/Grace Burgess
Comments: 75
Kudos: 249





	1. Citron (Ill-Natured Beauty)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General trigger warning(s): Allusions to child abuse, some graphic imagery, antisemitism directed towards main character including slurs. Stay safe!  
> 

The bell let out a series of chimes as the door creaked on its hinges, and in a small florist shop tucked between a gelateria and an abandoned butchery, Eleanor Blum officially met the devil of Small Heath.

She wasn’t impressed.

Flora’s, the little florist and botanical shop, had become a haven for the twenty-three-year-old in the time that she’d lived above Cora Evans’ storefront: only a few short weeks. Flora’s, partially named after Cora’s granddaughter, Florence, was a bright spot of color among the grit and grimness of Birmingham, with flower boxes brimming with asters and foxgloves, strawflowers and marigolds. Along the south-facing wall, honeysuckle crawled up the scratched brick, and the thick, sweet scent of the flowers almost washed out the stench of shit wafting up from the nearby horse stables or the sour-milk smell from gone-off gelato dumped in the dumpster, left to fester in the summer heat.

Inside, the shop was cluttered, bouquets dotting the window display and trailing back in colorful bunches all throughout the front of the store, some put in ornate vases, others in ribbon-adorned mason jars, and a few placed into half-rusted buckets. Petals and leaves dotted the floor, and the room reeked of lavender and fresh-cut stems, grassy and clean. In the back of the store where the rare plants were, packets of seeds labelled in Cora’s handwriting, and now in Eleanor’s own scrawl, lined their worktable in rows.

When he first came in, she didn’t bother looking up from her spot bent over one of the tables, hands streaked in dirt from potting snapdragon cuttings—they were very fashionable right now for front gardens, apparently—and the charcoal from her pencils. She’d plucked a honeysuckle bloom off its stem earlier in the morning and was practicing the loose lines of it on paper with strokes of a pencil.

The bell chimed, and Eleanor heard none of it, not until a voice cleared its throat a few paces in front of her. Eleanor jolted up, pushed a few curls out of her eyes.

The man in front of her was beautiful in the way most wild things were when trapped behind glass. The way vines were beautiful when they were confined to the cracks of cobblestone, peeking out in glimpses of brilliant green. With cheekbones that looked like they’d split the pads of her fingers if she reached out to touch, that looked like they were meant for dinner parties as much as they were for being flecked in blood, Eleanor felt herself stiffen. She knew this man. Sort of.

That newsboy cap was just _ridiculous_.

Thomas Shelby, the husband of Grace Shelby, stood in her new place of employment. The last time she’d seen him, Eleanor had been at a gala in a new dress, gems dripping from her throat and beading trickling off her hem while she grilled his wife on her new orphanage and its living conditions for the second time.

He was a ghost. Some half-wilted thing.

Eleanor tilted her head, taking in the stiff lines of him, the strained civility held in the pale blue of eyes, and thought: _how disappointing_.

She hadn’t taken Shelby for the kind of man to wilt.

Meanwhile, it seemed Mr. Shelby was studying her as well. The startling blue of his eyes trained on her, cut across by the thicket of his lashes. He swept up and down her form, and she avoided fidgeting just barely. It seemed he recognized her, perhaps from the charity gala for the Shelby Foundation that went so wrong. Eleanor herself had only seen glimpses of him at said event, dressed in a black tux, the cut of his jaw severe and the stretch of his coat across his shoulders making her mouth go dry. She’d seen him as a dark shadow lingering behind his wife, his hand curling around her pale shoulder or tucking a loose, golden curl behind her ear before he was up and off again.

Though, she realized she’d lied before. The last time she’d seen Thomas Shelby, it’d been a black-and-white photo shot from quite a distance, his back ramrod straight as he stood over the coffin of his dead wife. Surrounded by chrysanthemums and hydrangeas. His family stone-faced beside hordes of men in full military garb.

The thought of Mrs. Shelby made her wince, and if anything, that made him stare harder. Something in his eyes questioned, _how do I know you?_ Eleanor wasn’t obliged to answer.

She locked her jaw and crossed her arms over the dirt-streaked cotton of her blouse. “Can I help you?” she asked, “or did you come just to ogle?”

Somewhere from close behind, Eleanor heard a small squeak. She turned to face the noise. Florence, or Flora, sat on one of their many wooden benches, nearly toppling over a vase of petunias with every swing of her feet. Her eyes were very wide. “Ella,” she said, high-pitched, in a more-than-loud whisper. “Ella, that’s Mr. Shelby.”

Flora was a girl of thirteen, with straight, dark hair cut right below her ears, and a smile that grew more lopsided the harder she grinned. When the chores were through and if the shop wasn’t busy, Eleanor would sit down and entertain her with little doodles, half-formed sketches.

Right now, however, she was white as a freshly bleached sheet, her gangly legs jiggling with nerves. She hadn’t grown into them yet, but Eleanor found them endearing—almost coltish. Her eyes darted for her grandmother, but Cora was long gone on an errand.

Mr. Shelby seemed unaffected, clearing his throat again with a cough. One hand rested on his pocket-watch, as though already eager to check the time. “Ella, eh?” She’d never heard him speak before, and the coarseness of his voice made her stomach flip-flop alongside the annoyance burning away at her. “Well, Ella—”

“Eleanor.”

There was a slight furrow to his brow now. It really was painfully fucking charming. He just sort of looked at her, head cocked, considering. Eleanor let out a gust of a sigh.

“It’s Eleanor. My name. Not Ella.” _Not to you_ , she thought. There was a pause, and she heard more than saw Flora place her head into the palms of her hands.

“Tommy Shelby,” he said, as if she didn’t know that, and offered her his hand. Eleanor looked at that hand, the deceptive slimness of his fingers and the narrow taper of his wrist. His callouses were faded, softened with time.

There was dirt under her nails and specks of dried mud up to her wrists, but she shook Mr. Thomas Shelby’s hand like she was wearing silk gloves. All lowered lashes and a coquettish flick of her wrist bone. The high-society ladies back home would surely applaud her if they saw.

Then she ruined it.

“What kind of grown-ass man still goes by the name _Tommy_?” she blurted before she could stop herself, her hand still in his. His hand had looked almost delicate before, but it engulfed her own. The shocked jerk of it against hers sent a vibration up her arm, and she suppressed a smirk. His eyes narrowed in on her face, a sudden intensity there he hadn’t possessed before. Like he wanted to peel back her skin and look beneath. Off-to-the-side, Flora let out a distressed little sound, akin to a mourner at a funeral. Viewing the body one last time before it lowered into the earth with the worms.

The next sound past his lips was a huff that could’ve been taken for a laugh. If he were any other man. “One without a stick up the ass, I bet.” He tossed a glance Flora’s way, quirked up his mouth. He really had a lovely mouth. “Miss Eleanor.”

And Eleanor couldn’t hold back a grin. “Hm. Agree to disagree, Mr. Shelby.” She crossed her arms over her chest, leaned over the countertop until her curls swung into her face. They were close enough now she could almost feel his breath ghosting the top of her head. “So, what’re you here for, then? Haven’t got all day.” Now, she sweetened her smile so the next bit wouldn’t bite, only sting. “Not even for the likes of you.”

“Y’ know,” and his voice was a slow drawl that made her spine tingle and her hair stand on end, the way his lips formed around the words with the barest hint of threat, of teeth, “people rarely speak to me this way, Miss Eleanor.”

“Not to your face, I’m sure.” She paused. “Mr. Shelby.”

Was it just her, or was he almost smiling? “Fair enough. Just a bouquet for me.” His eyes hadn’t left her face. “Of your choosing.”

“Right away,” she said, but something nagged at her. Taking a glance at his clothing—well-pressed and well-tailored, with a dark coat that had to be far too hot for the late July humidity and slacks with a crease down each leg—and thought he looked like a man heading to a funeral. Or a gravestone. Eleanor swallowed. Thought back to that black-and-white photo from near a year ago. Chrysanthemums and hydrangeas.

Despite herself, she wondered if those had been Mrs. Shelby’s favorite flowers. They weren’t the flowers of funerals. Of mourning.

Eleanor cast her gaze around the shop, but there was no arrangement that caught her interest, that fit the bill. She worried at her bottom lip. “Gimme a moment,” she muttered, almost to herself, and stepped out from behind the table. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck.

Off-to-the side, pressed against the wall, were paint buckets filled with loose flowers, rows upon rows of color and texture, bunched together and stems kept in nutrient-enriched water. Among them, she found what she was looking for: chrysanthemums, white and ruffled with their pale green centers; hydrangeas, their purple petals in clusters. She also went for baby’s breath, as sparse and dainty as it was. A good filler for a bouquet, with the bonus of a powerful meaning. _Everlasting love_. Not that Thomas would know that.

From a pail on one of the many counter spaces, she hunted for a ribbon. All knotted up in a ball, it took her a moment before she found the perfect one and managed to untangle it from the rest. Silky, sage green embroidered with indistinguishable little white buds. Perhaps a touch too long. Plucking and tweaking until it formed into a proper flower arrangement, if not a bit of a rustic one, she made a simple bow around the bundle before turning back to her customer. Taking quick steps to get back behind the main counter. “All done,” Eleanor said. She couldn’t look at him. With the heft of one shoulder, an almost-shrug, she offered the bouquet forward, level with his chest. She traced the pattern of his vest with her eyes, the stitching.

The bouquet was smaller than a lot of the ones on display, less elaborate.

But it felt right.

Reaching into the pocket of her skirts, she rifled for the few spare coins she kept there for emergencies with her spare hand. He’d yet to take the bouquet. She slapped them onto the space in front of him with a clink. Just enough. Flora was strangely silent. “And already paid for.”

Thomas’ eyes felt hot on her face. Almost a brand.

He didn’t say a thank you, just gave a hum under his breath, and when he reached out to grab the flowers, his fingers grazed her own. She wondered what he thought of the scar tissue stretched across her knuckles, her fingers, if he could feel it against his skin, bumpy and rigid. This touch felt different than when he’d shook her hand, and it sent pinpricks of sensation up her forearm. When he let go, she shook out her hand away from view, trying to force the odd tingling away. It lingered.

“Good day, Mr. Shelby.”

“Eleanor.” And when he left, it was with a chime of the shop’s bell.

For a moment, the whole shop was suspended in a hush, as if the world itself had paused, reverberating with that single chime. But then Florence was up in a flurry of movement, flinging herself into Eleanor’s space with a string of expletives that didn’t belong in the mouth of a grown man, not to mention a fourteen-year-old girl. Eleanor laughed despite herself. Threw back her head with the force of it.

“Language,” she chided.

“D’ you ‘ave a death wish?”

Florence’s round eyes were roving over Eleanor’s face, her hands on her hips. She looked very serious—or would’ve, if not for the spot of dirt on the side of her nose.

Eleanor smiled. “Not recently, no.”

The younger girl didn’t seem to find that very funny, and a scowl twisted her features. “That’s Tommy Shelby you just ran your mouth off to, Ella,” she stated, jabbed a finger at her chest. _Adorable_ , Eleanor thought. “Tommy. Shelby.” The stress on these two words was punctuated with another two jabs.

“I know his name.” _I’ve met his wife._

“You don’t get it,” she said, and there was a franticness to her voice, her posture. Her hands twitched and fidgeted. “’E’s the leader of the Peaky fuckin’ Blinders. People say ‘e’s worse than the devil ‘imself."

“Language.” But Eleanor’s head was already tilted in curiosity. _Worse than the devil?_ “Peaky Blinders, huh?" She snorted. “Cute.”

“Not cute, Ella, not cute. Dangerous. Deadly. They’re the biggest gang in Birmingham. Turned businessmen. They own us.” She puffed a stray hair out of her eyes. “You get a glance at his cap?” At Eleanor’s nod, she continued. “They sew razors into the brim. You fuck with ‘em, they cut out your eyes.”

 _Huh._ “Is that very effective?” she asked, eyebrows raised high on her forehead. “I mean, that’s a bit of an awkward angle, isn’t it?” Flora groaned, flopping onto a stool besides her, propping her elbows on the counter and resting her forehead in her hands. Eleanor rubbed her back. She seemed to do this quite a lot when Eleanor was around.

Her next words came out muffled by her palms. “The Blinders ain’t no joke, Ella. They set fire to The Marquis for messin’ with one of theirs. Their enemies get found in The Cut without their faces.” Her voice became very quiet, near trembling. Almost tearful. “You shoulda never spoken to Mr. Shelby like that.”

Despite her best efforts, Eleanor felt a shiver run through her. Only she could be stupid enough to meet a devil and reach out to shake his hand. With a smile, no less. Well, it was too late now. She leaned until her shoulder pressed into Flora’s own. “Hey,” she soothed. “Look at me, huh?” Eleanor tapped at the girl’s cheek with a nail until she peered up at her, eyes a bit puffy. “Relax, sweetheart. I doubt he’ll be back anytime soon. Not with the warm welcome I gave him.” And she smiled until Florence couldn’t help but smile back.

The second time Eleanor saw the devil of Small Heath, it was a week later. At Flora’s. And it would be the same as the first.

That damn bell chimed.

It was with relief that Eleanor noted Florence was out of the shop when a Mr. Thomas Shelby arrived for the second time, having been sent off by Cora to the gelateria with just enough money for scoop of her favorite, strawberry swirl. This time around, it was just her and Cora in the near silence of the shop, the record player in the back a mere whisper of jazz. Instead of being up to her elbows in damp soil, she had a paintbrush in her mouth and another clutched between her fingers and thumb, making a new display sign with some thick paper and her tin of watercolors. A sketch of Flora, blowing petals out of the palm of her hand. It was as she was halfway through mixing a color for the shadows of her face that the front door opened. At her side, using twine to bind their loose flowers for the paint buckets, Cora gave a sharp intake of breath.

“Mr. Shelby,” the older woman greeted, hurrying to stand. A strong-featured woman of near fifty, Cora Evans wasn’t one to show fear, or much emotion at all beyond a muted amusement at her surroundings. This sort of _“why the hell not?”_ air of being that she'd clearly perfected over her years. Yet, while her own blue eyes were unwavering on Thomas’ own, Eleanor detected the tense line of her broad shoulders, hiked nearly up to her ears and tickling the grey-brown of her hair. Thomas inclined his head at her boss, and if he looked her way, Eleanor didn’t see it, because she had already turned back to her work, watering down a vermilion for the high spots of color on Flora’s youthful cheeks.

If she didn’t look at him, maybe she wouldn’t be compelled by whatever urge had struck her before—a sudden desire to pick at and tease, to wrestle up a smile on that pretty mouth.

Eleanor shook her head, a minuscule gesture, and huffed a curl out of her eyes. _Get it together._

“’Ow may I ‘elp you, sir?” And Cora’s voice was polite, restrained, the normal warmth in her Brummie accent stripped into something foreign to Eleanor. “On the ‘ouse, of course.” At that, she felt her lips pinch despite herself.

While Cora hadn’t been upset when her granddaughter had finally told her the story of Eleanor back-talking to a Peaky Blinder, she had gone a bit pale, setting down the pot in her hands with a heavy clunk on their scraped-up work table. Staring at Eleanor with new eyes. “Pretty fuckin’ stupid of you, love,” she’d said. “They’ve set fire to businesses for less.” And she’d shaken her head. “Messin’ with that Blinder Devil—thought you had some wits about you.” In the end, though, Cora shooed her off when she hastened to spill out apologies, holding out a hand to pat her on her shoulder.

“That Thomas Shelby is more sensible than most of ‘em put together. Not like his mad dog brother. It’ll work out for the best, I bet.”

But now he was back yet again, in a suit lighter than the one before, a pale grey waistcoat with no jacket in sight. His tie was missing, she could tell even from where she hunched over her work, the top button of his dress-shirt undone at the throat. Still looking unbearably hot for the weather. Even the thin material of her house dress clung to her skin with the sweat of being trapped in the shop all day. She didn’t know how he bore it.

“No need,” he said in that already familiar rasp, and she ducked her head further down instead of looking up and catching a glimpse of his face like she wanted. “Found myself in need of another bouquet.” And she could hear the amusement in his voice. “Eleanor. If you would.”

The empty space to the upper right of her drawing distracted her. Should she fill it with roses? Lilies? There was a pause that could be felt hanging in the shop, like a physical touch against her skin, but she kept her gaze to that expanse of untouched white.

“Eleanor,” Cora said, touching gentle fingers to the bared skin of her upper arm. She very rarely wore short sleeves, but with the heat, it felt unavoidable. The circular burns that peppered her arms like kisses—they weren’t even that noticeable, not anymore. Still.

_(On another August day, one from over a decade ago, she recalled the press and hiss of the cigarette when it hit her skin, and the way the mud never dried in that miserable backyard back in New York. Before her uncle came and packed her off to London. The backs of her knees were slippery with it as she squirmed and kicked. But the older girl kept a firm grip on her, and Eleanor stayed in place, sinking into the mud and dead, yellow grass. The cigarette was pulled back, still fizzling, and with the click of a lighter, was relit again. And again.)_

Eleanor blinked. Blinked again and rubbed a hand over her eyes, eyes that felt much more tired than before. She pulled the paintbrush from her mouth, set it on the countertop. “Of course, I can make you another bouquet, Mr. Shelby. Anything in mind?”

She couldn’t see him, no, but she knew his eyes were smirking at her. Her fingers twitched on her remaining paintbrush. _Smug bastard._ “Oh, just something to brighten up me office, I think.” And Eleanor clenched her jaw, because that sounded like such shit to her. _Why’re you here again, Thomas?_ She nodded nonetheless, kept her eyes down. _You make it very hard to behave._ She set down the brush with a clatter.

“I can do that.”

She searched for the most spiteful fucking flowers she could think of. Valerian, an herb frequently used for insomnia, green stems bloomed with clusters of white flowers. _Readiness. I could take you, Mr. Shelby._ Borage, or starflower, brilliant blue with hints of blush from the blooms with their white spines. _Rudeness. Bluntness._ And buttercups, their delicate yellow blossoms. A personal favorite and a good splash of color against all the blues and whites. _Childishness._ And, finally, Love-in-a-mist, or Nigella damascena, with their needle-point leaves and rich indigo petals ending in jagged points. A confession more than anything else, not that he’d know it. _You puzzle me._

In her youth, she’d gobbled up all the books on plants and herbs that she could find in her botanically obsessed uncle’s extensive library. That included tomes on the language of flowers. The knowledge had stuck. And now more than ever, she found herself grateful.

Eleanor plucked all the respective flowers out of their different buckets, organized by color, and set to work gathering the right amounts of each. She took a canary yellow ribbon from the ribbon pail with a flourish, flicking it in the air to get the kinks out. Grabbing a random empty vase that had once housed a beautiful but boring bouquet of a dozen roses—bought by a very frantic man in worker’s clothes and sturdy boots an hour prior, who looked like he was running quite late—she set the mass of flowers inside and set to arranging them.

Flora, who hid a chuckle with a cough at the sight of her flowers of choice, left with a quick word to the backroom and a warning glance that burned into the back of Eleanor’s head. She tried not to fidget.

She was wrapping the ribbon around the hunk of stems when a throat cleared from right by her side. _Fuck._ Eleanor started, spasming fingers losing the ability to form a bow. _Fuck._

“What’s a rich socialite like yourself doing in a flower shop in Birmingham, eh?”

But, God, she couldn’t help but spin to face the man now. Thomas stood with his hip propped up against the table she was using, head tilted and pieces of the unshaved part of his hair near falling into his eyes. Seemed he recognized her now. He looked curious. Hungry. Up close as he was, their shoulders near brushing, she saw the hint of freckles beneath his eyes, on the bridge of his nose. It seemed even devils tanned in the sun.

Everything about him was all graceful command, words spoken in a way that showed he expected to be answered, obeyed.

It reminded her of his wife.

The first time she’d ever seen Mrs. Grace Shelby, it had been at a luncheon held at The Midland Hotel, for the sake of convincing the richest of London society to donate to her cause—the Shelby Foundation, whose first action was building an orphanage in Birmingham. When her uncle, Samuel Connolly, had told her the news, alongside the fact that he’d been invited to attend a luncheon on the subject, she’d begged to be brought along.

“If anyone would have a stake in this,” she’d said at their breakfast table, pointing at his chest with a grapefruit spoon, “it’s me, don’t you think? Let me see how genuine this is.” Sam had set his hazel eyes on hers, lips pursed, but he hadn’t disagreed.

“You’ll have to dress up,” he’d warned, and she’d stuck out her tongue at him, taking a stab at a section of fruit.

Eleanor remembered the way the beading of her dress weighted her down that afternoon, and how all she wanted was to be back home in a pair of trousers, lounging with a book in her lap and Fennel, Sam’s Spinone Italiano, laying on the tops of her bare feet. Keeping her warm. But the rich had an ability to do any good works as half-assed as possible, and with all of her blunt Brooklynite manners from childhood, she had sworn to dig out the truth from this Mrs. Grace Shelby even if it meant pulling out the plyers and using some old-fashioned elbow grease.

That hadn’t been necessary.

The waitress that escorted them both to the hotel’s largest dining room was a near-silent woman, who meekly commented on the pale jade color of Eleanor’s dress before showing them to a room with a table longer than she’d ever seen. A rich, dark-colored wood leaning near black. The napkins were a fashionable rose, the plates rimmed in gold and dotted in florals along the edges. All the candles smelled of faint vanilla and sandalwood.

Even for Eleanor, who had spent her teen years and beyond in Sam’s by-no-means-minuscule manor and had attended many a party due to his notoriety, it was extravagant beyond measure.

At the head of the table, not yet seated and chatting with a plastic but pretty smile on her painted lips, was a woman with honeyed hair and aristocratic, well-bred features. She radiated old wealth in a way Eleanor never could, brought into the fold far-too-late.

_(“Oh my, it’s the little orphan bastard.” One of the wives of some business mogul whispered to her friends behind a glove. They all tittered away at her remark, and Eleanor, all awkward limbs and pale pink scars at fifteen years old, sunk back into the shadows of the sitting room. Uncomfortable in her new dress. Uncomfortable in her new life. “How quaint. It seems he really did pick up a new stray, after all.”)_

Most of the night was a blur, filled with soft, exaggerated laughter and mutual back-patting. In the dining room, the lighting was dim, almost sensual despite it being only two in the afternoon. Flattering everything into a near dream-like state. At the front of the table, Mrs. Shelby had glowed. Almost an hour prior, her hand had been soft and unblemished in Eleanor’s own. Even her handshakes felt soft as silk. But when Eleanor had cornered her later in the evening over a round of drinks, her own whiskey-sour in a fine crystal glass that felt like a paperweight in her hand, she had revealed pure steel beneath the refined veneer. Eleanor could barely recall her barrage of questions now, from over a year ago.

“What of the orphans with surviving family? Will they be entitled to visitation? And the staff—what of them? Would they be receiving proper background checks prior to their employment?” It had gone on-and-on, and Grace Shelby had answered with assurance blanketing her tone, and a blade tucked beneath her tongue, ready to wield. Her eyes steady. Demanding trust. Eleanor had, though begrudgingly, given it. And promised to have more questions the next time they met. Mrs. Shelby had seemed, almost, like she was looking forward to it.

But, well, the second and last time she’d seen Grace Shelby. _Well._

In the present, Eleanor zeroed back in on Thomas. He was studying her.

She knew the red of her lipstick must be smudged. That there was surely charcoal streaked on her face from using her pencils earlier in the day. That the nape of her neck was sticky with sweat, soaking the curls there.

Still, Eleanor arched her brow at who, apparently, was the most fearsome man in Birmingham. “I used the wrong fork,” she drawled. “Perilous mistake.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They locked eyes, and Eleanor wasn’t going to be the one to blink first. Without looking, she knotted the bow and pulled tight. “All done,” she said. She rambled off a price, perhaps one a little higher than necessary. She couldn’t help herself.

He blinked at her before reaching into his pocket for the money, and Eleanor let out a gust of air when his eyes left her. _How were they so blue?_ Reaching under the table for some tissue paper to wrap the bouquet in, she offered it forward, gripping it by the bottom of the stems. His own fingers grasped it above her own and tugged it out of her hand. He was oddly gentle about it. “Have a nice day, Thomas,” she told him, a clear dismissal, and he quirked a brow at her in a barely-there question. Whether it was because of the curt tone or the usage of his first name—it had just slipped out, she didn’t know why—she wasn’t sure.

Either way, he left. And Eleanor slumped, boneless, against the countertop. _What the honest fuck._

Now, she knew better than to believe this would be the last time they saw each other.

And true enough, they met yet again. This time at no fault of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're in for the long haul now lmao  
> written by ali, art by kailee  
> tumblr: @kai-n-ali  
> kailee's twitter: @GGKailee13245


	2. Lemon Geraniums (Unexpected Meetings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These two just keep running into each other. And Eleanor doesn't know how to keep her mouth shut.

Most people met devils at a crossroads: she met hers once more in a tacky Birmingham bar.

When she faced Thomas for the third time, she was half-way to drunkenness, sipping another gin with not enough tonic. But the bartender had given her an extra lime, so she wasn’t complaining. The Garrison, all gold-gilded Palace of Versailles, contrasted against the dust of its streets and the dirt on the cheeks of children running around cars, the echoes of bangs that rung out from the steel factory and the bursts of flame from a nearby forging and pressing factory.

Sitting in her soil-stained skirt with her blouse rolled up to her elbows, Eleanor imagined that she looked more at home out among the muck than here, within. But the few men that lingered at the booths and tables were just as grungy as she was, if not more so, with their oil-stained working overalls and sallow faces. None of them paid her any mind, and it allowed the tension to seep from her shoulders in a way it hadn’t since she left Flora’s. She took a sip from her glass and crinkled her nose—it wasn’t sweet enough for her taste, bitterness from both the drink and the minimal tonic water covering up the floral flavor from gin’s typical use of juniper berries. With a hum, she dug out the lime, the half-melted ice swirling around against the calluses of her fingers, and squeezed the wedge into the drink.

Another sip. _Much better._

A warmth was beginning to weigh down her limbs, thick as a blanket that fell over her shoulders and curled around her head. All muffled and muted. Her ears felt hot.

When she’d first stepped in and ordered a drink, the bartender had told her women couldn’t sit unaccompanied at the bar. He’d said it in an almost apologetic way, with a shrug to his shoulders as he slid the drink across the wood and towards her person. “Well,” Eleanor responded, hefting her own shrug, and raising her glass in a near salute. “I’ve got company, don’t I?” And she gulped down her drink in three long drags. “Another, please. Or I might grow lonely.” And the man hadn’t said anything more on the matter.

Someone had etched their name in the wood of the bar— _FINN_ in scrawled, too-big letters—and she was tracing it with her thumb, three tonics in and feeling her head grow heavy, when a hush fell upon the pub.

At first, she thought she must’ve nodded off for a moment, her eyes closed from where she was slumped against the bar, but when the silence stretched on and on after she opened her eyes again, she knew it must’ve been something else. A glimpse out of the corner of her eye showed the patrons of The Garrison quiet and meek, grown men turned mice from where they ducked down their heads and sipped at their drinks.

Her neck felt too weak to support her head, but she still craned it back for a peek. She was a curious person by nature. Couldn’t help it. The world spun, and just past the doorway of The Garrison stood Thomas Shelby in his silly cap and fancy clothes, making his way towards the very bar she sat at. _How lovely_ , Eleanor thought, and turned back for another swig of her drink. Empty. _Fuck._

She gestured towards the bartender for another, but his eyes were not on her at all, instead facing the man walking his way. Said bartender had gone quite pale, his shoulders moving with a subtle quiver. The tremor in his voice was much more obvious. “The usual, Mr. Shelby?” he asked, but a drink was already in his outstretched hand. Thomas tossed down a few coins without thought, grabbed the drink from the man’s hand.

“The whole bottle,” Thomas said, and that, too, was seemingly brought up from nowhere, a glass bottle of amber liquid lying in wait for Thomas Shelby’s hand. He grunted out a thanks, and without looking her way, was off again. That big black coat of his was back; it had a red lining she hadn’t noticed before. It looked soft. Eleanor watched after him, turning her head and getting hit by a wave of dizziness as she did so. Behind her, she heard a new glass hitting the bar—another gin and tonic. She grabbed the glass with one hand and slapped down her payment with the other. For all four drinks. Nodded her thanks to the bartender, who didn’t acknowledge her existence. And then, compelled by either her drunkenness or her curiosity, she wasn’t sure, she hopped off the barstool to saunter after a Mr. Thomas Shelby, who was sliding into a booth in the back with all the ease of a man who claimed the spot as his and his alone.

The pub was a lot emptier than it was before.

Her knees felt like gelatin by the time she made it over to his booth, and Eleanor set down her glass with a thunk. Unlike the other surrounding tables, this one seemed untouched by engravings, by chunks taken out of the varnish through careless hands or pocketknives. It was pristine. “You look lonely.”

For a moment, she was worried he’d never look up at her, his gaze only for the crystal glass in his hand. He swirled whatever was inside—whiskey, she bet, but beyond that she had no clue—with a sort of mesmerizing pace that almost distracted her before she straightened up and darted back to his face again. Eleanor rubbed at the burn scars on her arm, a nervous tic, and chewed on the inside of her cheek.

But he did look up, eyes half-lidded and still so very unnatural and blue. She couldn’t help but jolt a little. He looked like shit. Deep circles underneath his eyes dark enough to be bruises. She flexed her hands to avoid swiping at them, like she would still-wet watercolors. Eleanor gnawed at the inside of her cheek a little harder.

“Just peaceful,” he said after a pause. Eleanor scoffed.

“Pity. You’re about to have company.”

And she slid into the booth on the opposite side of him, though it felt less like a slide and more like a stumble. She gripped the table for support. His hat was gone, she noted, perhaps resting on his thigh. Thomas just stared at her, head cocked, his hair in a bit of a disarray. Strands falling into his eyes. Her fingers fidgeted. There was something about him—maybe the way he held himself, shoulders forced stiff even in the middle of a bar where no one even looked his way for fear of him—that was so... sad. Worn. And Eleanor had always done a terrible job at not caring.

He didn’t reply, so neither did she speak. Just nursed her drink, and after that got a tad unbearable due to a lack of both tonic and lime, began using her finger to spin the ice, ‘round and ‘round. She felt his eyes and the eyes of all the other men at the bar on her. They must’ve thought her insane.

Eleanor blinked, felt the world around her warp and shift, and next thing she knew, she found her cheek propped up on her fist, wisps of cinnamon-colored hair obscuring her vision. One finger, drenched up to the knuckle with watered-down gin and tonic from twirling in her drink, left a wet trail on her cheek. Her lashes kept fluttering despite herself. Through squinted eyes, she looked back to those dreadful circles of his, so purple they were near black, and the words she’d bitten back before came bursting forth. “Can’t sleep?”

It felt like a hypocritical thing to ask, when she herself had come here to avoid the disquiet in her own head. She’d spent a good portion of the night tossing and turning in bed, near delirious with the need to _just fucking sleep_ , but something had her limbs buzzing, her hands shaking. Eleanor had worked herself into a near panic, wheezing and breathless for a reason she couldn’t name, before she’d put back on her clothes and toed into her work boots, marching out of her apartment above Flora’s with adrenaline still thrumming through her bones. Something in her whispering _flee, flee, flee._ She'd used the fire escape to leave out the back, barely remembering to snatch her keys from her bedside table before she was out of there.

_(She was lying, but only a little. She had fallen asleep at some point, but only for what felt like minutes, moments. There’d been no light, no shapes or shadows. Just sounds. Just touch and smell and a ringing in her ears that drowned it all out. The headmaster’s voice, from years ago, voice nasally from a cold and breaking off high with anger. The sound of phlegm rattling in his throat. Sister Sarah’s scoff of disgust. “Do it again,” he said, and Eleanor felt the knobs of her knees itch against the carpet. Knew the indents she’d find there later, a brief reminder written in flesh. And there was the sickening crack of leather, a phantom pain arching like lightning down her back, along her nerves. The muscles in her arms strained and ached. But it didn’t matter. Eleanor woke up on a gasp clogging her throat, but her eyes were dry. It didn’t matter.)_

When Thomas looked at her, a certain iciness had crept in at the edges of his expression. There was a moment of glacial stillness. When he set down his glass, she shrank back into the confines of the booth, felt the hairs at the back of her neck prickling. Clear warning bells sounded off in her mind. The warmth of her drink snuffed out under his stare. But what came out his mouth wasn’t at all what she expected, and the last she checked, gin wasn’t a hallucinogen.

“Do you want to fuck?” His voice was low, head still tilted, eyes dark. It was almost rude, the way he said it. Like asking, _what’re you here for?_ Eleanor swallowed. Rubbed at the scars across her knuckles on her left hand.

“No,” she replied, a bit too quick, and he quirked a brow at her. Picked up his glass for another sip. She shrugged in response. “Gotta work tomorrow.” And she smiled a bit, a grin that pulled nervously at the corners, and slumped forward to rest her heavy head against her hand again. “And anyway, I’m drunk enough I can barely fuckin’ see. Why fuck someone if you can’t even see their pretty face, y’ know?” Fuck, she hoped he didn’t think she was calling him pretty.

There was that quirk to his lips again—that almost smile.

It made him look even more exhausted.

In a whoosh of movement that made her dizzy at the mere thought of it, Thomas was up and out of the booth, barely touched bottle of whiskey left behind. Hat in one hand. He offered up the crook of his arm. “Come on,” he spoke, but all she could do was blink up at him. He huffed. She blinked again, and the hat was back on his head. “Lemme walk you home. Since you can barely fuckin’ see. You far?”

Eleanor checked her hip on the table as she moved to get out and hissed a little under her breath, rubbing at the spot. She resisted the urge to tell him that she could _get home just fine, thanks._ “Not at all. Live about Flora’s, actually.” After a moment of peering up at him through her lashes, lips pursed, she took his offered elbow, clutching onto his bicep with tight fingers. She could confess, only to herself, that walking was difficult when the whole room swayed like a ship out at sea. “How gentlemanly, Mr. Shelby. It’s a right shame I’m no lady.”

He shook his head, maybe at her or maybe just at the circumstances, and began guiding her out of the pub; she kept her head down so she wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye. So she wouldn’t catch the way they looked her up and down, as if to say—that’s _what he chose to fuck?_ She wondered if any of them knew Mrs. Shelby with her perfect smile, her pretty face, and if so, she understood their skepticism. Despite their jump to wrong conclusions.

In any case, it was kind, she thought, that Tom walked slow enough that she didn’t stumble to keep up with him. By no means was he a tall man, but his legs were longer than hers by a good bit: he had perhaps half a foot over her. “But that’s not true, is it?” he drawled out, and Eleanor stumbled without knowing why. Her grip on him saved her. “I saw you at the charity gala. Last spring.” She looked up at him again as he opened the door for her, dropped his arm so she could walk through. His gaze was locked on hers. If mentioning the gala brought up any bad memories, they didn’t show on his face. Or behind his eyes. “I’ll ask again. What’s someone like you doing here in a place like Birmingham?” His elbow was offered up again; the heavy door of The Garrison shut behind them with a parting gust of air. She took it. Dug her fingers into his coat.

Eleanor sighed. She thought, for a moment, about lying, but it didn’t seem worth the struggle of sewing together a coherent fib as fucked up as she was. Words trickled out of her grasp before she could get a good grip on them. Shaking her head to herself, curls bouncing against her cheeks, she began chewing at her bottom lip. It was already raw from a night of worrying at it, and it stung at the dig of her front teeth. “I don’t know. Because I can, I suppose?” Looking back to him, she offered him an approximation of a smile. Birmingham was almost quiet around them, just the muffled laughter and sputtering of drunken men, the occasional moan from within the alleyways. Just white noise.

He didn’t look impressed by her reply.

So, she soldiered on, fumbling a bit for words. “I’m not. Well. I’m not very good at the whole socialite thing. I—” Cutting herself off, she kicked some gravel with her boot, watched a shower of rocks skip up ahead and disappear into the black of the night. “I can learn all the tips and tricks, curtsy like a real lady. Laugh like one and smile like one.” She met his eyes, smirked a bit. “Use the right fork. Doesn’t make a difference. They all still know I don’t fit, anyway.” Unable to help it, she laughed a bit, and her smirk stretched into such a wide grin she knew her teeth gleamed white in the dark. When she was a teenager, at elaborate dinners with her curls pinned up and away, unable to hide behind them, she used to wish her teeth would flash with her smile, bright and sharp. Something other. A predator’s snarl pasted over a little girl’s face.

She hid the bitterness of her tone well enough, she thought, but she could taste it on her tongue anyway, like the thistle leaves she chewed on in childhood, hunger gnawing at her stomach and the humid air making her pant, making her hair frizz. “Can’t hide the stench of trash, I guess.”

If the weather wasn’t too drab, the sisters would always force the kids out into the meager backyard after lessons—and the stretch of time before dinner loomed, a vast expanse. She used to prick her fingers on the thistle thorns in her haste to fill her belly. Little ones, five and six and seven with eyes too big for their faces, would crowd her then, tugging of her skirt and extending chubby hands for something, anything to eat.

Tom was silent for a pause. They turned a street. Almost there. “You’re American?”

Eleanor nodded. Even still, the accent showed itself on her tongue. “Grew up there ‘n all. New York. But I have citizenship here—have lived here over ten years now. My father’s family, they’re Irish, though they’ve lived in London for decades.” The silence stretched. “But, uh—yeah.” She cleared her throat, coughed just to let the sound take up space. Her filter had been worn away by gin—it felt near impossible to shut up now. And her loose lips couldn’t withhold her confession. “I came to work at Flora’s, in the end, because I wanted to prove to myself that I could still do it.”

“Do it?”

“Real person shit. Get a job. Live. Not be entirely useless, batting my eyelashes for half-assed charity. Drinking tea with my pinky finger up and all that.” Feeling exposed and having no one to blame but herself, Eleanor ducked her head, felt the wispier curls of her hair brush against her face.

Eleanor took back the hand curled around his bicep—the lamp from her second-story apartment was clearly visible now, left on in her haste to get _out-out-out_ , and its promise of warmth peeked through the gap in her dark curtains. If she squinted, she could almost catch sight of the book she’d left on the windowsill, a hint of a gold-leaf title glimmering from where it caught lamplight. Now, she was merely talking to make the walk go by faster, the words spilling past her lips as she felt Tom’s gaze burning into her, his presence a long line of body heat against her side. She was drunk enough that something in her longed to lean in, to burrow into his coat. It was a ridiculous feeling. “It all worked out, in the end. I work in the shop—and Cora, the owner, allows me to live up above, instead of working for pay. Help her keep up the place.”

Truly, the thought of stealing money from a woman who needed it made her ill. Especially when she had too much of the stuff by far. But when she’d attempted arguing with Cora, begging to pay at least half the original price rather than living there rent-free, the older woman had merely glared at her, expression sharp as a blade, and told her that no one wanted to live in an apartment that came with it the stink of rancid milk. “No use lettin’ it gather up dust, eh?” Eleanor argued that the dried lavender hung in the windows almost stifled the whole of it, but she didn’t dare try and bargain with her again.

She could see said lavender now from where it loomed just above her, trailing out and pressing against the glass. The door to the shop was in front of her now, though she couldn’t recall the few paces they must’ve walked between the street and the doorway; a wave of dizziness struck her as she reached for the shop’s keys within her pocket with numb fingers. Tom was at her back, almost too close, when he cleared his throat and enquired “Need any help?” as she struggled to put the correct key in the lock. Eleanor leapt in the air at the feeling of his breath ghosting against her neck, and when she glanced back, just for a moment, she found him peering at her over her shoulder, eyebrow arched. He was near enough that she could count those faint freckles beneath his eyes. It was nice to see them again. She swallowed.

The key went in, and with a twist, the click of the lock sounded in the air. “All good,” she muttered, and she felt her cheeks grow hot, though hopefully not red. _It doesn’t matter_ , she told herself. _He’ll be gone soon._ But it was as she turned to thank him and wish him goodnight that she found herself once again acknowledging his appearance, just as she did at the pub. In the dark of night, those shadows under his eyes had surpassed purple and presented quite black, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and along his forehead had deepened, brought into stark focus. Casting shadows on his face. And his eyes, near ghoulish in the faint light, were tinged red, irritated.

Again, she felt her fingers quiver. There was deep furrow in his brow she wanted to smooth away with her fingertips.

All-in-all, he just looked _raw_.

She couldn’t help herself. She didn’t know what overcame her. But with her bottom lip tugged between her teeth, Eleanor found herself reaching out and pushing back the strands of hair that fell in his face. She blamed it on the gin. In that moment, all she could note was how soft it was, how silky against the pads of her fingers. Then, reality crashed in. _Snap out of it._

Swallowing hard, she turned away and pushed open the door, using the force of her shoulder to get the rusty hinges to budge. Faced away from him, from his expression that had become blank—wiped clean at her touch—she stared into the shop, the shadowy figures of bouquets and foliage. Her blood thrummed with nerves. “I have tea,” she blurted out. “It helps—when I can’t sleep. If you wanna come in.” The back of her throat grew dry with the thought of a good cup of tea. For chamomile with its apple and floral notes, for lemon balm all mint and citrus. Perhaps valerian root in its earthiness. Just a good cup of tea and the sometimes-dreamless rest it brought with it. Maybe London life had changed her after all.

But then she remembered what Tom had asked her before, in the dim-lit corner of that pub, his head inclined to one side and his eyes so very, very dark. And the hot flush to her cheeks bloomed, she had no doubt, into a bright, blaring red. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—!_

“ _Not,_ ” she squeaked, and her voice was high, almost unrecognizable. Her shoulders up around her ears. “Not to fuck or anything. Just tea!” Eleanor couldn’t see his expression, but she could imagine it just as well. There was a pause, a certain amusement heavy in the air. “You don’t—”

His voice cut into her rambling. “If there’s no alcohol,” and she could hear the smirk in his voice. “Then sure, tea it is.”

“Oh,” she breathed, felt something in her chest loosen even as shock colored her words, “alright. Yeah. Come in, then.” Eleanor stepped into the doorway, the streetlight making it so she didn’t have to hunt for a light. When she held open the door for him, she saw that, yes, he was smirking, but the overall look of him was softer than she expected. No sharp edges. Probably too tired, she guessed, to be an ass. She watched him narrow in on the blush staining her cheeks and fought a squirm; in response, his smirk widened. Never mind.

 _Prick._ “It’s just up the stairs,” she muttered, gesturing with the crane of her neck to the backroom before spinning on her heel. In the air was the smell of eucalyptus, strong enough to unclog a stuffy nose, and the smell of it uncoiled the tension in her shoulders, made her sigh. This place wasn’t her home by any means—that was back with Sam and their dogs, with their library full of cracked spines and dog-eared pages, and the garden out back with tomato plants and courgettes, basil and mint sprigs—but it was safe. Familiar. And when the lights went out and the shop sign flipped closed, it was all hers. If only for now.

There was a danger, however, in becoming so relaxed when absolutely fucked. It went straight to her head, made it spin, and next thing she knew she was tripping on that damned faulty step—the one that was shorter than the others, the one that she’d learned to avoid in the first week of being here—that took them to the upper floor. “Shit, fuck,” she hissed, felt herself begin to tilt, but Tom’s hand was already on her elbow, pulling her up and reeling her closer to himself, close enough she was near flush with her back to his front. “Shit,” she repeated, with feeling. Felt a stutter coming on and tamped it down like you would a cigarette butt. “Thanks.”

He let her go. Eleanor didn’t shiver. She didn’t.

She was near twenty-four years old, dammit—not some touch-starved little girl. Not anymore. With a renewed gusto, she took the stairs two at a time, her face no doubt screwed up in a concentration she was grateful he couldn’t witness. She huffed a silent breath. Why was his gaze so piercing? Why could she always feel it against—against her skin, against her hair like the brush of fingertips? It was fucking distracting, is what it was. Did he do it on purpose?

But it was fine. They were at her door now, and after some tea, she could say she gave it a try—to be kind to this odd, broken man with his razorblade stare. He’d leave, and it would be done. Whatever curiosity he had sated. She was hardly an interesting woman.

Yet, when she went to grab for her keys the second time, moments away from putting the right one into her lock, he was up behind her again, closer than ever. His long fingers plucking the keys from her gin-numb hands and twisting the bronzed bit of metal into the lock for her. The back of her hair brushed the sturdy line of his shoulder. _What the honest fuck_ , she thought, not for the first time. Her heart tripped over itself. _That’s it. He’s got to fuckin’ go._

Without much thought, she snatched the keys back from his hand. “Thanks,” she said again, sounding very much like she didn’t mean it at all. She took a step into the faint light of the apartment, all sunset lit from the lamp, orange and warm and homely. Even if not home. The thought of her flicking on the lights and ruining this summer glow made her head pound. So, she didn’t. _It’s not romantic_ , she reminded herself. _It’s not. You’re fine._

“Of course,” he replied, sounding smug about it. _Damn you._ She flung out her arm, held the door open for him. Tom stepped inside.

Again, like back in the shop when they first shook hands, she wondered against her better judgment what he thought while he took in the place. What he saw. While she hadn’t been in this apartment long, she could see bits and pieces of herself throughout the small apartment: the fresh herbs dotted along her small amount of counterspace, the mint-green ceramic kettle on the woodstove with its matching teapot. A sketchbook that had tumbled off the quilt of her bed, still shut with a pencil sticking out from within the pages, a half-assed bookmark with the eraser side out. Small clay pots of seeds on her windowsill, housing sprouts young enough to need all the sun they could get.

There was always better lighting up here during the day. The perfect place to paint. It was why she’d set up a chair right next to the window. Some of the paintings and sketches she’d done here were already hung on the walls—mostly because Cora got so excited to see a new one whenever she came over for a visit.

Eleanor pointed to the small, round table set off-to-the-side, not far from her bed piled high in blankets and pillows and even closer to the stove, with a cup of old tea in a chopped mug still resting there. A swath of burlap functioning as her tablecloth. Leftover from the homemade bows Cora and Florence would make for the shop. There was a ring of tea from an overfull cup mostly dry, long having seeped into the fabric in tiny, out-branching veins. And a paperback book, _Frankenstein_ , already with a crease along the spine and a few fingerprints immortalized in ink across the top of the pages. Eleanor couldn’t help it—she loved writing notes in all her books, much to her uncle’s chagrin. “Here,” she said. “Sit. I’ll get the tea started.”

“You got any preferences?” she asked over her shoulder, making her way to the small stove and sink that functioned as her kitchen. It only took a few steps to get there. “If you’re real insistent on booze, I think I’ve got some whiskey I can slip into your tea.” Despite asking, she still reached into the cabinet above her head, pulling out a small glass bottle of fennel seeds. Then another bottle of dried peppermint, then one of dried lemon balm. Dried lavender flowers. Dried rose petals. Slices of licorice root.

“Just the tea,” he said from his seat, and she heard her table rattling. One leg was shorter than the rest; she’d yet to fix it. “Do what you want.”

She shot him a lopsided smile over her shoulder. “Yes, sir,” she said, dripping a teasing sort of mockery. It didn’t bother her as much to feel his stare, not now that she was in her own space, her own terrain. But it did do something to her, seeing him sitting in her place, lounging on a chair she bought from a yard sale. Her stomach felt trembly and weak, almost like a stomachache.

Eleanor turned back to the stove, but not before she shot a look to the picture of Sam on the mantle of her fireplace. _What the fuck am I doing?_ she asked him. But the smile that crinkled his hazel eyes in the photo didn’t waver. He had no answers for her. _Thanks a bunch, uncle mine._

Clucking her tongue once she realized what she’d forgotten, she got up on her tippy toes one last time, scrounging for her mortar and pestle. Pouring out a little bit of each ingredient, eyeballing more than anything, she started grinding them into a rough mix. Not quite powder. It took maybe three, four minutes, but it felt like decades. Like time suspended. The next time he spoke was near lost in the sound of her sink running, water hitting the bottom of her kettle with a dull tinkling sound. “Tell me,” Tom said, and Eleanor gave a little hm? in reply. _Why was she calling him Tom in her head?_ She shut off the water, turned to look at him only after she set up the kettle to boil. Her arms crossed against her chest. “Is this,” and he gestured to her room, the clutter of it from close quarters, “enough for you?”

Eleanor almost laughed in his face, but she chewed at her cheek instead. At this point, she was going to bite clear through it. “Sure, I’ll tell you.” She cocked her head. “But first—answer me this.” Tom puffed out a breath, waved her on with a hand. His elbow propped him up on her table, holding it steady. “You’re a wealthy man, Mr. Shelby. You’ve built yourself up from the bottom.” And she smirked despite herself. “What’s a wealthy businessman like yourself doing in a place like Small Heath, eh?” she asked, deepening her tone into his Brummie accent. She thought it quite good. “Thought it’d be _below_ you by now.”

Tom scoffed, but she kept her steadfast gaze on him. When his eyes focused on her, Eleanor saw the concession in them. The grudging respect of acknowledging a point well-made. _Go on_ , his eyes said. So, she did. “Exactly,” she said, just the right amount of smug with a stubborn tilt to her chin, “I feel the same. This,” and here she gestured towards the rickety table with its lopsided wobble, the paint peeling from her walls, the way all her furniture near knocked together, “is _more_ than enough for me. New wealth—it doesn’t change old habits. Old haunts.”

She raised her shoulders in something of a mix of resignation and good humor. “New wealth just gives you prettier things. But you’re still a gangster at heart, aren’t you?” Thomas had gone very still. In the back of her head, the small, rational part of her brain was pounding against her skull with furious fists, screaming _why can’t you learn to shut the fuck up?_ But Eleanor just straightened her shoulders back up, steeled herself, and offered a piece of herself in return for whatever she had just taken. _Fucking gin_. “And I’m just a bastard orphan from Brooklyn. It’s how it is. Why pretend otherwise?” And then, like a miracle, the kettle began whistling.

 _Bless you, HaShem, I may start believing in you yet_.

From then on it was just a flurry of movement, of her scooping the ground up botanicals into her teapot, then pouring in the boiling water to allow it to seep. Grabbing her oven-mitt for a make-shift trivet and tucking it under her arm, then grabbing one mug and a dainty, ridiculous little teacup by their handles in one hand and her teapot in the other, she trotted over to the table and placed all the items onto the table now between them. “It’s gotta steep for five minutes or so,” she admitted, and sat on the chair across from him, barely resisting the urge to curl her knees up to her chest like she wanted, to rest her head on them and close her lids. Eleanor trained her eyes on Tom instead. Drummed her fingers against the table.

“Lemon balm is good for stress,” she told him, for some fucking reason. Her mouth wouldn’t stop moving. She wanted to bite off her own tongue. “Soothes an anxious mind. And it’s supposed to induce sleep, when combined with other herbs. Like chamomile. Or Valerian root.” _Shut up, shut up_. “Actually, uh, in your last bouquet I put in Valerian flowers. I have some of that, too, but I didn’t put any in the tea.” _Shut up, shut up, shut up_. “It fuckin’ reeks of feet.”

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up_ —

“You talk an awful lot,” Tom told her, in his cigarette smoke-hoarse voice, and her mouth shut with a click. It hadn’t been said cruelly, just matter of fact, but against her will, her leg started bouncing beneath the table. She rubbed her fingers over her scarred set of knuckles and swallowed. Opened her mouth again.

“Not usually. But when conversing with a brick wall...” she trailed off. Tucked a curl behind her ear just so her hand could move, work off this odd restless energy that hung over her. Her palms were sweaty.

She slid the teacup his way, keeping her eyes on the pink petals painted onto the fine china. “For your delicate sensibilities.” She didn’t even get a snort in reply.

Tom studied her, one leg crossed over the other and body tilted back in some mockery of rest. His hair, once she’d brushed it back, stayed in some semblance of order. Even slouched, even ruffled, he appeared to her the perfect soldier. Alert. Mind too sharp for his own good. Finally, his lips parted again, and he asked, “Why put the Valerian in the bouquet for me?” _You ask an awful lot of questions_ , she didn’t say.

 _To spite you_ , she wanted to answer, but that didn’t seem entirely honest. Eleanor reached up and pressed a finger just beneath her eye, dragging it down. She couldn’t see herself—but she knew she looked ridiculous. “Your bags have bags. Tea’s ready.”

And because she was a lady, _thank you very much_ , she poured for them both. Eleanor pointed to the honey already on the table. “I don’t have sugar. Or milk. Sorry. Just honey.” The spoon was already in the pot—she'd had some tea before bed. Not that it had helped. He didn’t add any in. She put in two spoonfuls into her mug while watching the steam curl from his.

He took a careful swig from his teacup. It suited him.

“You haven’t given me your last name.”

Eleanor paused mid sip. “Fuck. Yeah, guess I haven’t.” She set down her mug with a thud. “It’s Blum.”

“Not very Irish,” he pointed out.

“No, guess not,” she said, smirking. Like she’d give herself up that easily. She stared down into her cup. Her posture was already unwinding, the tension in her neck and shoulders having seeped out with every swallow of her drink. The lavender was soft enough to chase away her oncoming headache. It was all fine. Drinking tea with the devil of Small Heath. After a moment, she heard a sound that made that change.

Thomas Shelby was laughing.

Not very loud, no, not very hard. It was more a chuckle than a true laugh, coming low from somewhere deep in his throat. But his head was thrown back, if but a little, and there were crinkles in the corner of his eyes from mirth, not exhaustion. It was a really, really lovely laugh.

 _What_. That’s all she could think, but there was no surprise in it. Of course, he’d have a gorgeous laugh. _Fuck you_.

When he spoke, you could hear that laugh threading through his voice still. There was a smile lingering on his lips. She wanted to trace it with her fingertips. Eleanor scrunched her hands in her lap, abandoning her tea entirely, and watched the fabric of her skirt wrinkle beneath her fingers. There was a faint tremor running through them—that’s how hard she gripped on, muscles straining with the effort. “A woman named _Bloom_ working at a flower shop. Couldn’t make it up.”

 _Oh_. “B-L-U-M, but yeah.” And she laughed a bit, too. It scraped her throat. “I didn’t think about it like that. Guess it’s fate.”

It was only when he’d left, when he’d promised to lock up the shop behind him, tea drained in a few sips and her own cup half-full and growing cold, that she slumped against her door and placed her head in her hands, capable of thinking only this: _what the honest fuck_.

This wouldn’t be the last time she thought it. Eleanor knew this better than she knew the palms of her own hands. No, not by far.

The next day, when her head pounded to the beat of her every footfall and her eyes were dry enough they’d go alight with a match, she trudged down the stairs with a stumble to her steps and a groan already on the tip of her tongue. Awaiting her at the bottom of the steps, one hand on her hip and something wrapped in sturdy brown paper clutched in the other, stood Cora. A delicious smell wafted from the paper, savory and spicy. And the recognizable scent of fresh bread. Eleanor started salivating on the spot. The older woman held it out with a wry smile.

“Eat up, love,” she said, “Before you fall down and knock your ‘ead.”

“Read a recent study that blood can be good for the plants,” Eleanor said, and then winced, feeling her own words echo and bounce around the confines of her skull. “Feel free to use mine if I knock my brains out on the counter. Waste not, want not.” Cora faked a gag, a smile pinching the corners of her eyes, and waved the pastry in front of her face. Eleanor snatched it with fingers that shook with hunger. “But yes, please.” The crust of the pasty was flaky, filled with skirt steak and potatoes, onions and some spice she couldn’t name. It was buttery enough that it melted on her tongue. From the bakery across the way, Eleanor guessed.

Eleanor let out a little moan, just this side of obscene, muffled by her mouth being full of crumbs. “You’re an angel as always, Cora. This world doesn’t deserve you.” Cora guffawed. She shook her head and sent stray tufts of her greying hair all about her face.

“And what do you want, eh?”

The two of them walked together to the main area of the shop, Eleanor munching on the pastry while catching spare crumbs with her free hand. She must’ve ate the thing in four, five bites, saving the side-crimping for last—it was the crunchiest—and licking the bits of flaked-off crust from her fingers.

“You’ve caught me,” she said. Cora curved a pencil-thin brow, hands having already found themselves arranging a boquet of sweet peas and lilies. She’d done it for so long she didn’t even need to look down anymore: her sight was through touch alone. Eleanor plucked a lily from the pile left behind and tucked it loosely behind one ear, the paper now crinkled in one fist. “I need off next Thursday into Saturday, if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure thing. If you can pick up Sunday’s shift.” It was then that she grinned, all ex-Catholic mischief with her blue eyes twinkling. “I don’t work on God’s day. You visiting that uncle of yours?”

Sam had come down to Birmingham only once since Eleanor had begun working here. A devout gardener and amateur botanist, the man had hit it off with the owner almost immediately, though that was difficult to notice at first glance. A thoughtful man more prone to speaking in his head than aloud, her uncle was rare to even raise his voice in excitement. Still, he’d left with little envelopes of seeds overflowing from the pockets of his coat and a random bouquet clutched in his fist, and Cora seemed fond of him for that alone.

“Yeah, he’s free for the weekend.” What Eleanor didn’t mention was that her uncle was free because the twenty-first was her birthday. Twenty-four years old—a frankly lackluster year. Even after all these years living with Sam, it was strange, celebrating her birthday, and she wasn’t eager to tell anyone about it.

When she’d been small, since she was maybe two or so, her mother had gone out to Doscher’s Bakery on Graham Avenue for two slices of bee sting cake, one for each of them; she’d let Eleanor eat the slivers of honeyed almonds off the top one-by-one and lick the cream off her fingers. Make a total mess of her clothes, her hair. They’d clink forks like champagne flutes, her mother saying “Zultsu zikh meren in freyden!” and pressing a sloppy kiss to the crown of her head while she did her best to shovel the treat into her mouth whole. Eleanor hadn’t touched a single crumb of the dessert since she last saw her mother. Almost a decade ago now. And she’d almost forgotten her own birthday by the time Sam entered her life.

Still, her uncle insisted on celebrating every year, drowning her with books and art supplies and trips to new oddities and historical sites, and he did it with so little fanfare that she could barely protest.

The next week and a half passed in a blur—remembered mainly through the feeling of dirt under her nails and the faint, lemony scent of fresh-cut camellias, pink and frilly and petals soft against her fingertips—and before she knew it, she was being helped into her uncle’s Bentley by a driver, sketchbook clutched in one hand and pencil tucked behind her ear. No need to bring anything else when she was on her way home. “Thank you,” she told the driver, Jonathon Simmons, fighting a flinch when his thumb brushed against the roughened tissue of her knuckles as he guided her inside the back door. She rubbed her own thumb against the scars once she was settled into her seat, as if she could somehow smudge those marks out of existence the way one would smear charcoal across the page.

“Happy birthday, miss,” Jonathon said as he slid into the driver’s seat, flashing her smile-crinkled eyes through the rearview mirror.

He was an older man, perhaps her uncle’s age, with a missing tooth putting a gap in his smile and grey peppering the dark caramel of his hair, his skin a deep golden color from gardening. When she was younger and could barely stomach the thought of speaking to anyone in the new and frightful place that was London, “Mr. Simmons” was the only person besides her uncle and their housekeeper that could pull out of her more than a handful of words. She’d sit in the back, Sam’s shoulder brushing hers, and babble about whatever new plant she’d seen or planted or read about, all hands and wrists and bright-eyed enthusiasm, and Eleanor had later realized that they’d looped around and around the streets for hours, driving aimlessly in an effort to keep her talking.

“Thanks, Mr. Simmons,” she spoke back, winking at him through the mirror, and he laughed and shook his head, eyes already back on the road. She could hear the smile in his voice when he replied.

“It’s Jon to you."

“Then it’s Eleanor to _you_ , Jon, not miss.”

The rest of the ride passed in near silence, just the occasional series of thumps as the tires rode along gravel or hopped over a pothole—in truth, Jon was a quiet man like her uncle, only speaking when spoken to and then in only a few, well-placed words. Though, he had a love of humming the newest jazz hit under his breath, warm baritone filling the confines of the car and tucking around her as a thick quilt would.

Eleanor shut her eyes in what felt like a blink, sketchbook in her lap and pencil tickling the place it sat behind her ear, and woke up to that very hum. She took a quick look around—the outside surroundings having transformed into the soft curves of windows and geometric lines of buildings, the bright pops of color that symbolized St. James Square. All Deco pomp amongst the older, smog-worn structures. Almost there.

“Just stop over here, Jon,” she said around a yawn, arching her shoulders in a half-hearted stretch and watching his eyes dart to peer at her.

“Y’ sure? Your uncle wanted you dropped off at his office.”

“Yeah, m’ sure. I like a good walk.”

The street she stepped out onto was all busyness, people bustling past and contorting to avoid jostling shoulders. The feel of multiple bodies made the back of her neck sweaty with additional heat, even as she leaned against the driver’s door; her arm stretched through the open window, tucking several packets of seeds wrapped in a quid into the front pocket of Jon’s shirt.

Her next five or so minutes were spent inhaling the London summer air, so humid her body felt as if it was moving through water. From a street corner, there was the smell of Chelsea buns wafting, the brown sugar baking in the heat and making her mouth water. In what felt like seconds, there was one in her hand and a few coins dropped into the seller’s. The dough of the bun ripped easily between her teeth, baked currants bursting flavorful and tart on her tongue. Melted butter wet her lips.

“I’ve fucking missed you, London,” she muttered under her breath, as one would a prayer or blaspheme—whichever—and felt brown sugar and cinnamon crunch against her back molars. It was gone in mere bites.

It was bliss. _Happy birthday, Eleanor_.

That bliss, of course, did not last. Humming whatever tune Jon had drilled into her head, Eleanor was stepping over the cracks in the concrete and admiring the scuffs in her leather t-strap shoes when she finally looked up and caught notice of a familiar ridiculous hat. The noise of the surrounding passerby dulled into a roar.

She was standing directly behind Tommy Shelby, eye-and-eye with the all-too-familiar woman that sat across from him. Suddenly, she felt very aware of her sticky fingers.

Said woman was beautiful in that classic way, slight and trim with a short bob of dark hair and lips painted a pretty red, not yet smudged despite the bite of egg and toast she had held halfway up to her face. There was a toddler sat on one of her knees, shoveling tiny bits of sausage into his mouth with grease-slick fingers. “Eleanor,” Ada Thorne blurted, brown eyes wide and grin already forming, and Eleanor didn’t even have a moment to enjoy the hilarity of Thomas Shelby dining at some greasy spoon in a patio chair before she felt that burn of his blue eyes on her.

Ada Thorne, who’d worked at the head desk of the London Library when she knew her, was now sitting in an expensive dress probably triple her monthly salary, eating greasy food with the very same man that made fully grown factory men quake in their boots. Eleanor blinked to clear whatever must’ve obscured her eyes, but the image stayed the same.

“Ada,” she said.

“Ms. Blum,” Tom replied instead, his gaze still roving her face. There was a tight clench to his jaw that looked like it could crack teeth. Eleanor wanted to look to the sky and ask for—well, she didn’t know what. A bolt of lightning, perhaps, though the Lord had never done her favors before. She knew—she just _knew_ there were crumbs collected at the corner of her mouth but wiping at them meant admitting defeat.

Instead, she just sighed and said between pursed lips, voice near a growl, “ _Tom_.”

Ada was bouncing her eyes between the two of them, her grin growing more and more with every second despite the bewilderment at the edges of her expression and in the pinch of her pretty features. Here eyebrows were experiencing a steady ascent to her hairline. “You two know each other?” An obvious thrill to her voice, she tugged little Karl off her lap and placed him into the seat beside her, moving forward to lean both her elbows on the table. Eleanor pried her focus from Tommy to shoot a crinkled nose in her direction.

Somehow, Eleanor’s feet had carried her without knowing to the side of their table, now safe from foot traffic. “I should be asking you that,” Eleanor said. “ _You_ know _him_?” And she gestured with a violent stab of her finger towards the man, silent and brooding, that sat across from the petite brunette. Ada outright cackled.

“This,” and here, Ada gestured with a hand, all splayed fingers, towards the man who was rapidly becoming the bane of her existence, “this is my brother, y’ know. How d’ _you_ know him?” Her smile twisted into something wry, even as her shoulders shook with leftover laughter. “I mean, you’re too lovely by half.”

 _Ringing endorsement_ , Eleanor thought, numb with shock as she shot a look Tom’s way.

Meanwhile, before she could even part her lips to respond, Tom had twisted his body to face off with her, head for once tilted up to meet her eyes instead of down. It was heady feeling, him looking up to her. But the high fell too fast. “Crawling back to London society?” he asked, lashes thick and dark as he peered up through them, and Eleanor knew the scowl tugging at her mouth was a ferocious one. She tweaked it into a mean smile, instead.

The crumbs were still lingering about her mouth, she just knew it.

She told herself she didn’t care.

“Just visiting,” she told him, saccharine sweet as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Birmingham can’t be rid of me that easily.” Pausing a beat too long, Eleanor cocked her head. All faux casual. A curl sprung against her cheek. “And what about Mr. Thomas Shelby? Here for business or pleasure?” His lips parted to retort.

Ada butted in again, setting down her fork with a clink against her plate, a bit of sausage still speared on the end. Karl snatched it. “Birmingham?” she blurted, voice gone high and aghast. “What on earth could make you stay in a place like Birmingham, eh? _You?_ ”

 _Ouch_. “A healthy sense of adventure,” she defended. Ada stared. Tom scoffed.

With the screech of his chair as he pushed it back, Tom stood up. Now with his gaze torn away from her, Eleanor felt something in her chest loosen. It felt like relief. “Well, Ada,” he paused. “Karl. This has been... nice.” Eleanor snorted, staring down at her feet to avoid either’s responding stare. “I’ll leave you both to catch up.”

He pulled back the chair again to offer it up to her. She blinked in his direction, mind swept clean in that moment before it kicked back into motion; she muttered a soft “thank you” and stepped in front and into the chair. The sensation of him tucking the chair back into the table with her in it made her feel... odd. _Not this shit again_.

“Consider my offer,” he told Ada in a parting goodbye, tossing far too much money on the table between them, and without waiting for a reply, he was gone. Eleanor stared after him. Across from her, Karl now peered at her with narrowed eyes. It became clear that he was after the untouched plate before her, piled high with fluffy eggs and toast and breakfast sausage.

“Did I....” and she trailed off, furrowing her brows as she turned back to Ada. “Did I scare him off?” she asked, gesturing towards the full plate with a nod. She wanted to sound impressed with herself, but she just came off lost, even to herself. Ada shook her head.

“Tommy’ll forget to eat even when it’s right in front of him.” At Eleanor’s puckered expression, she pressed on. “Said he had a meeting, earlier.”

“Ah.” Eleanor went quiet.

Ada looked at her with her head tilted. There was something about her that had softened with Tom gone, as if some burden had been lifted. Eleanor didn’t know how to feel about that. But a curiosity still burned bright in the dark color of her eyes. Eleanor swallowed. “Go on,” she groaned, “just ask.” Grabbing the plate from in front of her and scrapping the contents onto Karl’s own to a loud, boyish cheer, she arched a brow in Ada’s direction. “I know you’re gagging for it. Go on.”

Head tossed back, Ada let out a full belly laugh. Crinkled eyes suited her. Now that she knew their relation, she could see Tommy in bits and pieces of her facial features: the fine bones of their cheekbones, the quirk of their mouths when they laughed. _Ada Shelby_ , she thought. _No shit_.

Meanwhile, Ada steamrolled ahead, leaning forward in her seat with a renewed enthusiasm. “ _Birmingham_ , Eleanor? Christ, you’re mad. No wonder you know Tommy, then.” She shook her head, though not a hair went out of place. “And the way you spoke to him! I can’t believe— _Hey!_ Karl, love, get your fingers outta your mouth! That’s impolite.” With her attention diverted as she tugged her kid’s slobbery fingers from his open mouth, Eleanor got a moment to speak.

“I thought a change of scenery could do me some good, is all. Your brother came into the flower shop I work at.” She didn’t disagree with the scoff Ada let out at hearing that. It had been quite the sight, seeing Thomas Shelby among all the flowers of Flora’s.

Ada was grinning at her now; Karl back to eating his eggs and sausage, clumsily using a fork this time. “I bet your uncle was sad to see you go. Fused at the hip, the two of you always were. He’d sit with you for hours at the library.”

Mid-laugh, Eleanor caught the time on Ada’s watch. “Oh, shit,” she hissed, and then knew her eyes went wide. She shot a wild look in Karl’s direction. “Sorry, Ada,” she said, but Ada merely shook her head with a light laugh and a handwave. “It’s just—I'm seeing my uncle today. That’s why I’m in London.” Eleanor ran a hand through her hair, already standing up and pushing in her seat in hurried, jerky movements. “I was meant to meet him, oh, ten minutes ago?” She cussed, much softer, under her breath again.

“Hey, no worries,” Ada soothed. “But wait.” Pulling a pen from her purse on the table, she scribbled down a number on a napkin. “My phone. Call me so we can _really_ catch up, eh?”

“Yes, absolutely. So good to see you, Ada—” she rambled, breaking herself off with a hasty clap to Ada’s shoulder, and with a grease-stained napkin now in hand, she was near bolting down the street.

In what was almost no time at all, Eleanor found herself panting in front of her uncle’s office building, hands on her knees and appearing for all the world like an utter madwoman. Curls in a disarray and sweat beading down her flushed face. She stood there, gasping for air, before straightening her shoulders and flicking the hair out of her eyes. The grey, lifeless building before her loomed, as it always did—a reminder of the Connolly legacy and her failure to live up to it; their business in steel that she was never meant to touch. The very air around the place tasted stale.

If she saw Will Jr., her half-brother, today—she swore she was going to lose it.

It was her birthday, dammit. The universe owed her one decent day.

Eleanor scrubbed at her mouth with the back of a hand, and with a wave of relief, found no crumbs lingering there. Small miracles. A boost of confidence steeling her spine at that knowledge, she swung open the door of the office building with her head held high.

Only to find Timothy, the daytime secretary, meeting her with a sneer behind his desk.

 _Fuck’s sake_ , she thought. “Afternoon, Timmy,” she greeted, just to be spiteful. She watched the plastic mask of politeness overlapping his young face twitch and waver. He’d never liked her. _Why don’t you go suck Willy’s dick upstairs, huh?_

The inside of the office space was much sleeker and more modern than the outside, with plush velvet seating for the waiting room and little crystal bowls of candies speckled throughout the wide-open entry way, on Tim’s desk and the end tables scattered about. Wine gums this month, she noted, red and yellow and green—it was her uncle that insisted on keeping the office stocked up on candy: he had a famous sweet tooth that made her gums ache at the thought of it by the time she reached adulthood. A lot of her early memories with him were colored by some sweet treat he’d taken interest in.

Besides the candy, it was a sophisticated set up, all dark wood and rich reds and plums, more suited to be a parlor than an office. It made her palms sweat whenever she saw it, like at any moment someone was going to burst through the door and accuse her of stealing some trinket or mucking the place up. That was ridiculous, of course. But still. Old fears never died.

“Ms. Connolly,” Tim replied, though he spit it out like a curse. She bared her teeth at him in a mockery of a smile, wished they were razor sharp. “You uncle’s in a _meeting_ , if you’re here for him.” A sour look briefly took over his expression, wrinkling his snout-like nose, as he spat out the word “meeting”. Eleanor rose her eyebrows in shock at his vehemence. He briefly looked down at the clipboard set before him, flicking the first page up to reveal the one beneath it. There was a moment’s pause where she did everything not to shift on her feet; no way was she going to wait here with this guy. She’d rather bake in the summer heat. “He should be about done, if you’d like to head back.”

There was a hint of a smirk lingering in the watery blue of his eyes. She didn’t know why—but she didn’t like or trust it, anyhow. “Sure,” she said, slow and cautious. “Thank you, Tim.” _Eat shit, Tim_. And if she heard him mutter a familiar slur as she strolled past, shoes muffled by the carpeted flooring, she just held her head one notch higher.

Her uncle’s office was one of the only ones on the first floor, isolated from Will Jr.’s and all his little friends on the board. While it was true that Sam had been trying to tiptoe away from the business over the years, wanting to pursue his own passions away from London society, he’d agreed to keep his position on the company’s board of trustees after the death of Will Sr.

She couldn’t blame him for sticking around—she didn’t trust Will Jr. very much herself. Bit too malleable for his own good. Not to mention, a mommy’s boy to the core.

The office was smaller than the ones upstairs, she knew, but in a way that seemed cozier and more intimate than stuffy. She’d spent many moments curled up in one of his chairs, sipping tea with too much milk and re-reading _Wuthering Heights_ with all her scribbled-in margins. Adding new notes over top the old ones with her favorite fountain pen.

The hallway leading up to it was all wood-paneling, and Eleanor counted the number of panels under her breath as she made her way towards the door. “Fifteen, sixteen....” she trailed off, steps away from the doorknob, as she heard two voices from within. That bastard—the meeting wasn’t “about done” after all, it seemed. Eleanor shifted on her feet, debating whether to head back out.

Now that she thought about it, _both_ voices seemed awfully familiar. _Wait_.

 _No way, no way, no way, no way_ —

One of those voices—Sam’s—cut off abruptly. Through the wall, she could hear him listening, the strain of his old ears tuning in. There was a soft sound of mirth. “Eleanor, little wall-flower, I can hear you hovering,” her uncle said, a laugh thrumming just beneath his voice. A pout tugged at her bottom lip before she could stop it. “Come in, please.” _Fuck_. She swung open the door and shut it behind her.

And inside, of course, was Tommy Shelby, back as straight as a soldier’s and his hands folded in his lap, _sitting in Eleanor’s chair_ with his head craned back to peer right at her. His eyes seemed a bit wide.

It was a good look on him.

 _What the honest fuck?_ she thought he might be asking, though beyond the slight change in those eyes he seemed entirely unaffected. _Like I fucking know_ , she thought back at him with all her might. His brow furrowed.

She could see the very moment where everything _clicked_ into place, his eyes darting to the side; she wondered if he was recalling Sam’s picture on her mantle, if he had experienced a flash of unexplainable recognition when he first stepped into the office.

“Eleanor Connolly,” Tom spoke first, a tilt to his mouth but an edge to his voice. The paranoia welling up beneath the businessman veneer was clear to her. That vein in his jaw—the one she was becoming fast friends with—was ticking, bulging out against his skin. Too many coincidences, his eyes said. Eleanor didn't disagree. “It’s Irish, alright.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “It’s still Blum. Bastard, remember?” Sam laughed outright.

Speaking of Sam, the man was looking too entertained by half, face lit up the same way Ada’s had been what felt like ages ago now. Smiling like this, the wrinkles at his mouth and eyes tugged his features into an expression that made Eleanor’s heart go soft even as she gave him a death stare. His hazel eyes glittered with a mischief people often dismissed. He looked entirely unrepentant. And delighted to see her.

“I was going to introduce my niece to you, Mr. Shelby, but it seems there’s no need.” Sam leaned back in his leather chair, offering up a feathery brow in Eleanor’s direction. She shrugged, avoiding the other set of blazing eyes settled somewhere on her face. Instead of meeting that stare, she scanned the huge bookcase that towered behind her uncle, searching for new texts among all the gilded titles. None. Her uncle was slacking.

“I met your niece in Birmingham, Mr. Connolly. Not where you’d expect to meet a woman of her caliber.” At that, Eleanor whipped to face Tom with a glower twisting up her lips. He smirked at her.

“Ah, yes, well.” Sam’s cough disguised a snort. “That healthy sense of adventure of hers takes her wherever it will, I’m afraid.” His thin-wire glasses slipping down his nose-bridge, Sam nudged them back into place with a thumb and leaned forward in Tom’s direction. His expression took on a degree of seriousness. “But back to business. You see, I’m running a good bit late for quite the birthday bash—” Eleanor choked but he heard none of it “—so let’s make this quick for the both of us. You wish to set up a contract with Connolly Steel for your distribution of motor cars to America, yes? But couldn’t get into contact with my nephew?”

A certain bitterness overcast Tom’s face, but in a flicker, it vanished. “That’s correct.”

“Hm. Well.” There was a stretch of time, then, when her uncle locked eyes with her, hazel on brown, not even attempting to hide the clear question emblazoned across them from the other person in the room. His head tilted to one side, not a single hair escaping his slicked back style. Every inch the man-in-charge, yet asking for her opinion, nonetheless. _What do you think?_ he questioned her, clear as day. Eleanor swallowed hard. Felt the sour-sweet taste of responsibility settle somewhere behind her back molars.

Out of the corner of her vision, Tommy had eyes only for her.

After a pause that pressed against her skull, behind her eyes, Eleanor finally gave her a small nod. _He’s good_ , she told him—even though she’d been told the very opposite, even though she had nothing but _gut feeling_ telling her otherwise—kept her eyes steady and true on his, and hoped it wasn’t a lie. Hoped she wouldn’t regret it.

A smile lingered on Sam’s lips. She didn’t like what that smile might’ve meant for her—he'd want to chat later, she was sure. _Gossip, more like_. Her uncle clapped his hands, and the sound of it ricocheted throughout the office, vibrating down her spine. She caught the way Tom tensed, his knuckles going white. “That’s that, then. I’ll speak to my nephew and have it so his secretary wouldn’t dare refuse your call, Mr. Shelby.” With a shake to his head, Sam huffed. “I don’t have much sway in this company in my old age, but _that_ I can do for you.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got the Chelsea Physic Garden to visit with my niece, if you don’t mind. We’re running late for our appointment.” Standing up and forcing Tom to stand up in suit, he offered out his hand to shake.

Connollys, it seemed, had no fear of shaking hands with devils.


	3. Celandine (Joys to Come)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleanor's first few months with her Uncle Sam were... eventful, to say the least.

She met her uncle for the first time barefoot and half-feral, wearing old blood on her fingers and streaked across her dress. 

When they called Eleanor down to Headmaster Grafton’s office, her fingertips were still tender from embroidering dresses at the local dress shop earlier that morning. She rubbed them against the pleats of her skirt as she took the stairs two at a time, willing the sting away. Having left her shoes somewhere under her bed, still caked in mud from the rainy day, her big-toe poked out of a hole in her pantyhose and hit the wool carpet with every step. It scratched. 

When she was younger, maybe eight or nine, the sight of the big oak door with its perpetual dust settled into the engraving of Mother Mary would’ve made her break out into a cold sweat, a phantom sting of leather hitting raw skin making her spine stiffen and her eyes water. 

But she was thirteen now. 

It sent a jolt through her system, seeing the door already open. Usually, the headmaster made all the girls knock before entering, waiting until they started to shift on their toes or rock on their heels. He liked spending long hours complaining to all the teachers, disparaging the young orphan girls’ lack of discipline. Sometimes, if he caught them fidgeting too much, he’d rap their knees with his cane. 

Once, when she had been sneaking to the kitchen for a quick snack—she was the favorite of the cooks, _but don’t tell anyone_ —she’d seen him frothing at the mouth over when one of the girls got snot on his new coat, due to some awful crying jag earlier that afternoon. His face had been a very fierce shade of red, she recalled, as he’d paced about in one of the empty classrooms, hands flicking about. The color disguised the faint pockmarks on his cheeks and the paleness of his complexion. Eleanor preferred it. He looked more… human, that way. It was nice knowing he bled like any other man. 

Today, however, the door was open. Inside, sat the headmaster with one of Eleanor’s least favorite teachers, Sister Sarah, whose lips pressed into a smear of rosy pink rogue as soon as she caught Eleanor at the doorway, barefoot and with smudges of rust smeared down the cream of her skirt. She liked to say the lip color was all-natural, but Eleanor knew better. Across from them, in an over-large chair of what she knew was buttery-soft leather—she once got in trouble for curling up and falling asleep in it at nine-years-old, near delirious from a nightmare of her dead mother and having snuck out of bed and hunkered down in the unlocked office—sat a man she’d never seen before, his back to her. 

The headmaster was a man with light hair and even lighter eyes—this chilled, near clear grey—with a thin, cruel mouth. Slim in that fashionable way wealthy people always were with pearls dripping down the languid lines of their throats or Patek Philippe watches wrapped around the delicate curves of their wrist bones. Eleanor was envious—they never had any awkward bits, no hollowed cheeks that looked scooped out with a melon spoon, no knees that stuck out in knobs of bone under paper-thin dresses. 

“Anne,” Headmaster Grafton beckoned, hand waving her inside. Eleanor bit her lip to avoid doing anything stupid, like curse him out or attempt to deck him, and felt the familiar sting of her front teeth sinking into the torn skin. Her knobby knuckles weren’t very good for punching, unfortunately, quick to bleed with the semi-fresh welts stretched across them from Sister Martha, the only teacher who still rapped her with the leather strap when she got an answer wrong. The only teacher who ever called on her anymore. 

It said something about her that Sister Martha was perhaps her favorite person here. 

Grafton clucked his tongue, waited until she stood across from his desk, hands folded in front of her. She kept her eyes on the carpet, this fluffy, garish thing the color of blackberry wine, and his eyes on her forehead seared into her skin. “Anne,” he said again, and it made her want to tear at her hair, or maybe his eyes, those cold eyes—because, yes, Anne was her middle name, her mother’s name, but it wasn’t fucking hers. And she’d stopped biting at her nails, recently, and they’d grown long enough to do some damage if she tried. She could do it. 

Eleanor, apparently, was too Jewish of a name, and while none of the staff or teachers could do anything about her last name, as full-on _kike_ as it was, they _could_ switch out Eleanor for Anne. Saint Anne, at least, was the mother of Mary. 

Eleanor, christened Anne, baptized anew. 

_(T_ _here were nights_ _when she was laying in her bed, still damp from when one of the older girls had dumped buckets of ice-cold rainwater into the sheets—or on one particular occasion, from being freshly scrubbed of pig’s blood from the butcher’s a street over; the stains never came out—where she just repeated her name in her head. Over and over again. Mouthing around the syllables, tasting them on her tongue just so she remembered. Just in case. They’d scrubbed out the Yiddish with lye soap, the language of her mother, but her own name she’d keep.)_

The next bit of what the headmaster said sounded off to Eleanor’s ears: a record scratch, a jerk of a needle. Nothing but a string of words. And now her eyes were on this stranger. 

Even sitting, he seemed towering to Eleanor, a looming presence—a well-built man going soft in the middle. He looked like he could snap Eleanor’s wrist with the press of his pointer finger and thumb, but when she risked a glance at his face, swiveling her neck _very_ covertly, his face was made up of long lashes and crinkles at the corners of his hazel eyes. On his head was a shock of red hair, left wavy rather than gelled back slick and going strawberry blond at the temples. His cheeks were peppered in white-as-snow stubble. This man could’ve been ancient as time itself or, maybe, thirty-five—Eleanor didn’t know. 

But what caught her attention most was that word the headmaster said—that word. Uncle. _Your uncle_. This strange man with too-expensive clothes and a floral lapel pin, this was her family, her kin. Eleanor spun on her heel, away from Grafton and towards this new man, this silent man whose brown leather loafers must have cost more than her entire wardrobe. 

“You’re Ma’s brother?” she asked, unable to believe it. Even through the blurred memory of her five-year-old self’s eyes, her mother had been a woman made up of dark colors, brunette curls near black and skin that tanned brown in the sun. This man was all light, all pale gold. But it was the only explanation that made any sense. 

She’d seen a photo of her grandparents once, obviously red-haired despite the black-and-white, and thought maybe that explained it. Though they had possessed much darker complexions. 

Her uncle— _her uncle_ —blinked. “No,” he said, short and to-the-point but not cruel, and his voice was feather-soft. There was an odd lilt to his voice she’d never heard, a funny way he spoke his vowels. “Your father’s brother, actually. Will Connolly.” 

An Irish last-name if she’d ever heard one. 

Eleanor stared at Mr. Connolly. “My mother was a whore,” she said, tone gone flat between grit teeth. Grafton hissed. Sister Sarah snapped out a sharp “Anne!”, but that wasn’t Eleanor’s name, so she didn’t respond. On the fine-boned features of her so-called uncle’s face, she looked for any traces of shock. There were none. Not even a furrow of his faintly-lined forehead. “How d’ya know I’m his?” 

Mr. Connolly only smiled. “You may not see it, but we look a lot alike, you and I. I haven’t a doubt.” She opened her mouth, shut it again. She couldn’t find the words. “He passed, unfortunately. Last summer. But he wanted to know you. Make things right.” At some point, Grafton opened his big mouth again, and some sort of grown-up talk ensued, but Eleanor couldn’t get herself to focus, couldn’t rip her eyes from this stranger’s face. 

She tried to be sad—hearing that this man, her father, was dead. 

But her head was stuffed with cotton; her very system gone numb. 

In a flash, the headmaster’s hand white-knuckled her shoulder, his form too hot along her back, and Eleanor went very still. Felt her limbs lock into place. Her heart stuttered. “Be good, dear,” the man said, and his tone was saccharine, sticky sweet as a bubblegum cigarette. She didn’t answer, didn’t breathe, and in a moment, she heard the click of Mrs. Lynch’s sensible shoes before the door shut behind them both with a heavy thud. Eleanor’s eyes flinched closed. 

After a breath, or two, and a silence so heavy it weighed down her shoulders, she sat in a recliner across from Mr. Connolly, crossing her legs at the ankle as she slumped into the velvet material. She could be a lady when she wanted to be. But one foot couldn’t stop tapping against the carpet. The one with the bare toe. Eleanor took in a deep breath. “It’s lavender, isn’t it?” she asked, abrupt, and he arched a brow at her, leaning forward, hands propped up on his thighs and elbows bent. “That pin.” She gestured with the jerk of her chin. 

He laughed. It was a low sound, rumbling deep within his chest. Warm. “Keen eye. Aye, it is.” The tied sprigs of lavender were delicate for such a large man, the feathery fronds rendered in silver, and the whole pin perhaps smaller than the stretch of his thumb. It really was beautiful—she wanted to sketch it with the charcoal pencils hidden beneath her mattress. “It was me mother’s.” 

Even more embarrassing, she wanted to hear that laugh again. He hadn’t been laughing at her. It hadn’t seemed unkind at all. 

But when she looked up from a scab at her knee, she saw his expression didn’t look like he wanted to laugh much anymore. His own gaze was glued at a spot by her right wrist, and for the first time, the man that was probably her uncle looked rattled. His jaw clenched. His eyes perhaps a bit wide, blue and brown and green. There was a flush to the tops of his cheekbones that hadn’t been there before. 

She took a quick glance down, then darted back up to stare at him again. Her sleeve had ridden up. 

Eleanor bit at her lip. He saw. It didn’t matter. It didn’t. 

_(“Little pig,” one of the girls said, almost loving, almost fond as she held her down into the dirt and muck of the backyard, and another pressed the glowing eye of her cigarette into the skin of her forearm. This girl’s hair was in pretty blonde braids, frizzed in the summer humidity, and her grip was tight on her wrist. The cigarette steady between her fingers. The flesh sizzled and sizzled while she held it there, and Eleanor thought of the mud caking the back of her hair and of the blue of the sky and of how much she didn’t want to cry. While they laughed and laughed and laughed._

_But, no, it didn’t matter now. It didn’t.)_

Eleanor tugged down her sleeve without looking away. The thin, healed skin of those circular burns disappeared behind the stained cuff of her dress shirt. _Say something_ , she thought her eyes might have said when they locked with his, and her skin felt like it was burning all over again, hot and too tight. _I dare you_. Mr. Connoly’s lips pursed. Then he opened his mouth. 

“Anne,” he started. And didn’t seem capable of saying anything more. 

If she squinted, he really did look like her a little—in the straight arch of his brow, the curve of his top lip. The own red of her hair. The freckles across his nose bridge were fainter than her own, but the shape of the nose itself was the same. A fair counterimage, masculine where she was either soft or gaunt. “It’s Eleanor,” she said after a beat, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears, like from somewhere far away. She flexed her toes against the carpet. Knew there was no place to hide. She’d corrected him—this stranger that wanted to take her across the sea, this man who, from the sound of it, wanted to bring her home with him. 

To her eyes, the hands resting on his pressed trousers seemed the size of boxing gloves. 

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, got stuck in her throat. She swallowed around it. But all Mr. Connolly did was cock his head, just so. 

“Eleanor?” he asked, and his tone was mild as milk. 

“My name,” she explained. 

He sounded puzzled. “But they call you Anne?” 

Eleanor shrugged, picked at a run in her hose. “Because it’s my middle name,” she said. _Because they’re bastards_ , she thought. “But I wanna be called Eleanor if I’m comin’ home with you,” she told him, pushing onward. Maybe she was imagining it, but she thought the corner of his mouth quirked, just a little. “Not Ella or Ellie or anythin' like that.” She paused. “Please.” 

And the stranger that was her uncle smiled, wider than before. “Call me Samuel, then.” And he offered his hand to shake. She leaned forward to take it. “Eleanor.” 

After a month at Sam’s home—what the few staff there dubbed Narrow House due to its long and low layout—Eleanor made her first grave mistake. 

Narrow House was the most strange and most fantastical place Eleanor had ever stepped foot upon. While it was in Chelsea, London, a place with a good bit of bustle from the glimpses she’d catch outside the car window, the sycamore trees that sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the front of the house cut off the outside world, blanketing the whole place in shade. It felt like a place for the fae. Not for man. The first two weeks of near silence she experienced, only disrupted by the rustle of leaves and the static hiss of cicadas, had left her jumping at every sound at night, curled up on top of her covers and hiding her face in her knees. Waiting for the monsters to come. 

There weren’t any, of course. She should’ve known better—she wasn’t a kid, anymore. 

Or maybe they were very shy monsters. Either way. 

Truthfully, Eleanor couldn’t recall her reaction towards the place when she first stepped into the house, just the feeling of Sam’s hand settled feather-light between her shoulder blades. The way her eyes were welcomed by warm hues of gold and cream and deep red. A few leafy plants draped over a table just at the entryway; senses itching, she wanted to touch the waxy film of the heart-shaped leaves but flexed her fingers instead. There’d been a similar plant on Sister Agnes’ desk; it had always looked so parched. 

_(By the time she hit ten years old, she’d mastered the art of tip-toeing on her stockinged feet, having learned which floorboard squeaked, which route ensured the most carpet coverage. There was a single board in the main lobby that shrieked a blood-curdling sound if you hit it with your big toe just so—she’d learned that the hard way._

_At night, when all the other girls were pretending to sleep, too afraid of a lashing to even breathe out-of-turn, Eleanor would go to Sister Agnes’ desk with her cup of water, steps hidden amongst the cacophony of gasps. Walking in wide sweeps over the creaks and sighs and moans of the wood and never spilling a drop._

_The_ _nun called its sudden revival an act of God. Maybe it was cruel, but she let it die after that.)_

The entryway was dotted with chairs stacked high with pillows and throws, and through the open doorway to her left, she caught a flash of what could have only been a chandelier, though she’d never seen one outside of a magazine, all delicate cut crystal spiraling down, hung over a long and dark dining table that seemed to stretch into infinity. 

Before she could absorb any of it, however, an electric jolt of fear overcame her, stole the breath from her lungs. A giant mass of dark fur appeared from another room, launching itself in her direction. Eleanor went rigid. 

Trapped between her uncle’s hand and this eldritch horror, there was nowhere to turn. 

“Sweet-Pea,” Sam said in a stern voice she’d yet to have heard from him, one that came from somewhere deep in his chest, and she flinched so hard she thought her bones must’ve ground together. 

But he needn’t have used it, because the shadowy figure had already sat back on its hind legs right at her feet without any prompting, slobbering globs of drool onto her patent leather shoes and looking up at her with big, patient eyes. Its tail beat against the ground. 

“Hi, Sweet-Pea,” she said, faint. The big dog near came up to her chin. She had to yank back her own hands when they automatically reached out to pet it—its coat looked so thick she thought that once she buried her fingers into the coarse curls, they’d be done for. They’d sink so far in they’d never come out again. 

“He’s still a puppy,” Sam said, sounding apologetic. Tall and skinny with paws too big for his stick-thin limbs, and no longer a blurred-out nightmare created by his quick scamper towards her, the only thing frightening about Sweet Pea was his magnificent height. His teeth were exposed in a doggy grin, tongue lolling as he panted. “He gets excited.” His hand moved from her back to her shoulder, giving an awkward two pats that made Eleanor go even more still. He dropped his hand fast. The next words came out soft, a gentle nudge, “You can pet him if you want.” 

And so, she had, resting a tentative hand on his head. His fur wasn’t very soft, she found out, but the feeling of his head butting against her stomach for more attention made a smile bloom on her face before she could bite it back. 

Later that day, she’d met the rest of Sam’s pack. Besides Sweet-Pea, his Irish Wolfhound, there was Fennel, a Spinone Italiano; Ginger, a Border Terrier; Lady Susan, a Scottish Terrier; Cricket, a Rough Collie, and Billie, an English Water Spaniel. Though she’d asked after the breeds—more to be polite than anything, because men always seemed to get so worked up over their dog breeds, or at least the headmaster had—all the names spun around in her head, muddled and mixed. Though, Billie’s name was impossible to forget from the start: the stout pup with his chocolate fur was as round and fat as a sausage link, and as soon as she’d offered the little guy a treat, he’d nipped it out of her hand and rolled over for a belly rub. 

Very quietly, she’d whispered an _“I love you”_ to her new friend—because how could she _not_?—and she’d ducked her head at her uncle’s chuckle. 

It was still a really nice laugh. 

They’d spent a good twenty minutes where Sam would drop treats into her palm to bribe the dogs with, showing her how to make them roll over and sit, to beg with their paws up and to run circles and other tricks. Eleanor learned a lot in that short time. That Lady Susan had a very imperial look to her whenever she demanded treats, arching her head and narrowing her eyes as if to say: “ _Well?_ ”. That Fennel had a love for licking between toes, as she’d left her shoes at the door. That Cricket’s fur felt like a cloud. By the time they were done, her clothes were littered with dog fur, white and brown and black stuck to the grey of her dress. 

Her uncle had also promised a tour and an introduction to some of the staff, but one look at the overwhelmed expression on her face once they’d hit the sitting room, full of ceiling-high bookcases and couches that could seat a small army, and he offered to show her to her room instead. Her head still spinning over the fireplace as he guided her up the stairs. He left the door cracked open before he left. 

“Come get me if you need me, yeah? I’m just across the hall,” he’d said, and she’d nodded like she’d meant it. He didn’t look convinced. “Bathroom’s the door next to this one,” he told her, a wrinkle to his brow, and was gone with the pad of footsteps on hardwood. 

That night, she’d slept on top of the covers of a bed that could’ve housed four or five of her fellow orphans. Afraid to disturb that array of artful pillows at the top of the bed, she curled up at the bottom in a tight ball. Velvet and silk and in colors she’d never thought she’d be able to touch with her own hands. She still wasn’t sure she could. 

The summer night meant it wasn’t even that cold. 

That night, Billie hopped up onto her bed while she laid with her eyes wide open, listening to the wind whistling through the trees, feeling ungrateful and homesick and wanting the midnight roar of Brooklyn’s streets. Wanting her mother. He’d pressed his wet nose against her cheek, and she’d cried into the soft, downy fur of his chest until her eyes grew so puffy, she had no choice but to close her eyes and sleep. Eleanor was only glad that Sam couldn’t hear her. She’d mastered a silent cry years ago. It had taken a while, but she’d learned. 

_(You see, the headmaster_ _liked to watch_ _. Until it got boring. He’d bring the nuns in to witness. Maybe he spoke—she wasn’t sure. Her knees dug into the carpet; she could feel the indents form on the scraped-up skin there, red and raw and irritated. Bits of fluff sticking to half-formed scabs, still gooey with tacked-up blood. And the belt buckle clinked with every swing. It made more noise than her. One day, she promised herself, she wouldn’t even cry at all. The headmaster_ _liked to watch_ _, so she bit at the inside of her cheek until she bled, until salt and snot ran down her chin and dripped onto that hideous fucking carpet, the color of blackberry wine. Until it got boring.)_

But it was different now, weeks later. Eleanor had learned the layout of the place, the few staff that her uncle kept around the house. And she knew his habits—what he liked. What he expected from her. As long as she was good, he’d keep her around, and maybe he’d even end up liking her a little bit. 

She’d done so well until now. 

It’d began over breakfast, a butter knife dripping marmalade hovering over her burnt toast as her uncle set down the newspaper in a rustle of pages, peering down at her through the thin frames of his spectacles. There was a sense of finality in her uncle’s expression that made her mouth go dry. A scraping sound reverberated throughout the kitchen, knife on toast. 

Eleanor didn’t feel so hungry anymore. 

It was a shame, too—she'd only just started allowing herself these bits of extra luxuries. Climbing under the covers at night. Picking a mint leaf off the plant in their windowsill to taste. Taking the dogs on a walk without asking for permission. Drawing a bath instead of washing up with the sink and a rag. Running her fingers along the spines of Sam’s books, instead of just using her eyes. 

Marmalade. She liked it when the bits of rind stuck to her teeth, chewy and sweet. 

“I think it’s time we get you a new wardrobe,” Sam said, and she felt dread wash over her, settle into the chinks of her armor. She knew what that meant; she _knew_ what he was going to say. “I called the family seamstress”— _and who the fuck has a family seamstress, anyhow?_ —“and she agreed to come over today to get your measurements.” 

Eleanor opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You don’t need to do that. My clothes are fine,” she said, voice low, and hoped the defensive bite in her words was heard only by her. No such luck. By the wrinkle that formed at Sam’s brow, that wasn’t the case; if her tone hadn’t alerted him, the way her hand shook the triangle of toast in her grasp was clue enough. The toe peeking out of her stocking met the hardwood of the floor as her whole foot began to tap against the surface in a full-blown jitter. 

Sam seemed to piece together his words very carefully. “Eleanor,” he began, and Eleanor’s knees were shaking so bad she feared rattling the table with the force of it. When he got serious, his speech went much more formal. “I am your guardian. I know... you feel as though you don’t need new things. And I’ve held off for all these weeks. But being as I am in a place to provide you all the luxuries in life, I feel as though getting you clothes that do not have _holes_ in them—and aren’t several sizes too small, at that, clothes that _actually fit_ —is more than reasonable.” This had to be the most she’d ever heard him speak in one sitting. His eyes were roving her face, but her face was already directed towards the poached egg on her plate, not him. “D’ you understand?” 

Eleanor nodded. Her cheeks blazed. 

Sam let out a breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding in the first place. “Alright then,” he said around a sigh. Like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders after her compliance. Like her opinion had mattered to him. “Good. Mrs. Davies’ll be here at two. Eat your breakfast now, eh?” There was a smile in his voice when he said it, but she scrambled to shovel in the remains of her breakfast anyhow, gulping orange juice and scraping the runny yolk off her plate with the crust of her bread. Smearing marmalade across her face in her gusto. He didn’t say it like an order. But just in case. Her stomach churned. 

Orange peel was still stuck in her teeth when the sun hit her face, fifteen minutes later. 

It was always coolest out in the early mornings, so that’s when Sam (and now her, it seemed) did the garden work. This was his normal morning routine, he’d explained to her, until the winter frost made it near impossible to go out until midafternoon when the sun was at its height. The mist felt like a balm to her frayed nerves, brushing against her skin; the morning dew coated her shoes in a gloss. Taller blades of grass left wet trails on the stretch of tights over her ankles. 

Autumn was just beginning to touch the trees, glimpses of ochre and pinpricks of cherry red among all the green like a child’s finger-painting. The white stone pathway was framed by heather growing taller by the day, sprigs of pinkish-purple, or _lilac_ , that tickled the pads of her fingertips when she brushed through them. Though, she and Sam kept having to replace their mulch whenever the dogs dug it up. Said path led to a man-made pond stocked with fat, happy koi; they nibbled at her fingers for food when she stroked her hands through the water. She wasn’t sure how long she spent knelt by the pond in the first few weeks, just watching it ripple under her hands, disrupting lily pads that were sent bouncing on the waves. 

Sam had cut her some of the heather to hang upside down in her closet, bundled up with dental floss and left in the dark on a clothing hanger to dry out. It didn’t have much of a scent, but its color had made her eyes sparkle at the very first sight of it. She couldn’t wait to hang it in her room; maybe on one of her bedposts, if it didn’t shed too much. 

Besides helping with maintaining the heather, she also pruned the asters planted in clusters out in the sunlight, placed close to the patio furniture. She liked the touches of yellow and purple at their centers best. “You could press one, if you like,” Sam told her one day in early September when they’d just began to bloom. She hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away. “I could buy you a book for it. You could collect any you want.” 

Eleanor hadn’t responded, wondering if it was a test—ribbing her, attempting to trip her up into asking for too much—but she hadn’t needed to speak a word. Her uncle plucked a flower from its stem, bright white against the tanned calluses of his hands, and held it out towards her until she offered up cupped palms for him to drop the bud into. It landed center face down. 

“I’ll get you one,” he had said as if that transaction settled it, simple as that, and now, weeks later, a leather-bound journal rested on her bedside table. Parchment paper was tucked away in one of the drawers, though she wasn’t allowed to touch the iron without permission. 

This rankled her, sometimes. She’d worked as a seamstress’ assistant, for God’s sake, but Sam insisted, and Eleanor didn’t dare protest. In any case... It felt. Nice. To be worried over. 

Among Sam’s backyard and dedicated garden, there were countless other flowers Eleanor had gotten acquainted with, though their names she had yet to quite master. White and pink autumn crocuses, she could identify without a pause or hint of self-doubt, but the miniature yellow blooms with their outreaching pistils she could not, for the life of her, recall any details of. Just that they liked hugging warm walls in the winter, shielded from the biting cold. 

Currently, Sam was ruining the fine wool fabric of his trousers, knees sinking into the damp earth, checking on his radishes with careful touches. He patted the spot at his side. Eleanor rushed to kneel. His smile was a small one; she was graced with no baring of teeth. No threat. No bite. Just a smile. He offered up the bag of mulch at his other side. “They’re not retaining moisture,” he explained, in that voice he often used when instructing her in any way, patient and steady with little variation in tone. No abrupt rises in volume that made her skin prickle with nerves. “Mulch will help with that. But we’ve gotta keep it a real thin layer, y’ see, like this.” 

Eleanor heaved in a breath and let it escape in a little puff of air. “Why thin?” she asked, tentative, and watched her uncle’s eyes light up. 

“Good question,” he praised, and Eleanor felt her ears burn, felt her cheeks pull with a reluctant grin. Sam grinned right back. “If you’ve got too thick a layer, it’ll keep any water from getting in, from reaching the roots. Ruin all your progress then, won’t it?” 

The rest of the morning passed in this manner, checking all the plants, watering and pruning and patching up holes in the mulch from overzealous paws, before the housekeeper, Ms. Catherine Moore, let out the dogs at 11 AM sharp, a pitcher of what looked to be lemonade in hand. Eleanor inwardly cheered: lemonade was her favorite. The dogs chased each other throughout the garden, nipping at their siblings’ tails and rolling in the dirt. From where Eleanor now rested, sweat beading her brow as she took cover beneath the picnic table’s umbrella, Cricket trotted over, resting her head on her grass-stained knee with a flick of her mane and a small yip escaping her mouth. Eleanor dug her hand into the scruff of Cricket’s neck, offering a scratch—that fur was still cloud-soft. 

From the corner of her eye, Eleanor watched Ginger, unkempt and often indifferent towards the other dogs, make straight away for Sam. He was lounging in a chair opposite to her, nursing a cigarette; the strands of his hair unshaded by the umbrella lit up a striking red-gold, like fire woven into thread. Her hair never looked so brilliant. “Little monster,” he greeted with a smile, inviting the dog onto his lap for pats. “I know it was _you_ , digging up the mulch. Menace that you are.” 

Ms. Moore reached them then, pitcher clutched in one plump fist close to her chest and two glasses pinched between the fingers of her other hand. The ice rattled within its glass container, sloshing the juice near over the brim and swirling the ladle in the pitcher ‘round and ‘round. Up close, Eleanor saw bits of fruit suspended within, sliced strawberries and what looked like quartered peaches, dying the drink more orange-pink than yellow where they settled at the bottom. 

The pitcher, then the two glasses, were set against the patio table, cushioned with a pinky. Ms. Moore was a woman even older than her uncle, perhaps sixty years old, with a crinkle-eyed smile that she shot at Eleanor right now, head ducked under the umbrella to escape the sun. She pulled from a pocket in her apron two straws. 

Eleanor took one when it was offered to her and watched with eager eyes when Ms. Moore began filling up a glass, holding the ladle still to avoid spillage; the housekeeper then used said ladle to spoon out several more pieces of fruit, slipping them into the glass with barely a splash. “Here you are, Miss Eleanor. You look parched.” She clucked her tongue, and the fine wrinkles around her mouth creased deeper. “Samuel, now y’ know I told you to get that girl a hat, didn’t I? She’s goin’ t’ burn right up at this rate.” 

She’d never heard anyone else ever call her uncle _Samuel_ , but being as Ms. Moore had worked for the family since Sam was in diapers, Eleanor imagined she was the exception. 

In any case, Eleanor didn’t think she’d burned in her whole life, spending hours beneath the rays of the summer sun, skin growing darker and darker still. New freckles peppering her skin. But it was sweet—that she cared at all. She hid a smile behind the brim of her glass. 

The few hours left until the arrival of the seamstress blurred by, her nose buried in a book that Sam recommended for her, a collection of short stories. Her fingers were coated in remnants of juice, having reached into the glass to pull out chunks of peaches, syrupy and dripping. They stuck against the pages if she lingered too long. She was more than halfway through “The Yellow Wallpaper,” wondering at what that smooch must’ve been that the protagonist was seeing, wrapping about her room and marring the paper that was driving her so mad, when Ms. Moore came back again, an odd look in her eyes when she peered over at Eleanor, squinting in the sun. Sam looked tense. His eyes flickered to Eleanor. 

“Mrs. Davies is here, Samuel, in the parlor.” 

And _oh_. She’d forgotten. She’d forgotten all about the seamstress. 

This was where she mucked it all up. 

A subtle shiver taking over her fingers, she tucked her book beneath her armpit before wiping imaginary crumbs off her skirt. Eleanor took a very deep breath, one that rattled in her chest. Mustering up a smile for Sam, one that felt like an open wound stretched across her face, she sat up. Her chair pulled up hunks of grass as she pushed it back. “You don’t need to come,” she said, tried to mean it. 

Sam just shook his head. “It’d be rude of me, not welcoming a guest. And Mrs. Davies is an old friend of me mother’s, besides.” 

Mrs. Davies was a small and squat woman in her late fifties, shorter even than Eleanor, who stood just a few inches below five feet at thirteen. Her cheeks were round and pink, her hair a dark blond. Barely greying. Her skin looked almost leathery, and those round cheeks pushed her eyes shut with the force of her smile. All smile lines. 

“Oh,” she gasped, as loud as a gunshot even across the room, and only the pressure of Sam’s hand at her back prevented her from flinching back and away. Her voice was fairy-soft, airy and light. Like it could just float away with the wind. “She looks just like Winnie! Your mother had the same nose. And her hair, Samuel,”— _yet again, with the_ Samuel, _was that an old lady thing?_ —“such a lovely shade of red, it is.” That bright smile was spun her way. Sam slowly inched her forward, bit by bit by bit, until she was a mere handshake away from the older woman. “We’re going to have such fun together, dear. Every girl deserves pretty clothes.” 

Eleanor didn’t know what she deserved, but it didn’t feel like this, trapped in the too-hot room of her uncle’s parlor, baking from the heat radiating off the fire-place. Those red bricks of the mantle, she knew, would be warm to the touch. Trapped in this room, to be poked and prodded. Left exposed. _Don’t be so dramatic,_ she scolded herself. 

This is what her uncle wanted. 

And shirts that fit would sure be nice. No snags. No missing buttons. 

Her uncle’s hand was heavy on her shoulder, this barely-there pat; she was ready for it. Didn’t flinch. There was a smidge of satisfaction burning away in her chest at that. “I’ll be just outside, then. Put on the kettle,” Sam said as if trying to reassure her, and he held out a hand for her to place her book into. With one last pat, a little stronger this time, he was gone with the click of the door behind him. Instead of looking at Mrs. Davies, she traced with her eyes all the titles on the bookshelf behind her instead. 

She didn’t seem to mind. Out of the corner of her eye, Eleanor noticed the length of measuring tape curled around one wrist. “Alright, sweetheart, we’ll get into all that you’re lookin’ for—oh, I can just imagine you in dark green, you’d look so sweet, or some rose. So precious! But first, I really do need your measurements.” She beckoned Eleanor closer still, to where she was standing in the middle of the carpet, her little brown heels set against the cream with its deep red patterns, vines and roses twined into diamond-esque shapes. Eleanor tried not to drag her feet. 

She was right in front of Mrs. Davies, now. “Thank you, ma’am, for agreeing to do this,” Eleanor said, because she could be a polite little girl if people let her be. 

Mrs. Davies cooed. “Marge is perfectly fine, dear.” 

“Thank you, Marge.” 

Marge stroked her hands up and down Eleanor’s arms from shoulder to elbow, like soothing a startled animal, and Eleanor felt her whole body lock up in reply. “Alrighty now,” she said, and her voice really was just like a fairy, “let’s get to it.” Eleanor tried relaxing at the sweet sound of it, uncoiling her tense muscles bit-by-bit, starting with her toes and finishing with her shoulders. Best to start small and build up. Marge kept pushing onward. Hands still on Eleanor’s arms. “Take off your clothes for me, Eleanor dear.” 

Static. 

“’M sorry?” Eleanor asked, and her voice was not her own, something stretched thin and alien. The hands were gone, now, and Marge was unrolling that measuring tape from around her wrist. For a moment, Eleanor just counted how many times it unwound: _one, two, three, four, five_... Quick, practiced jerks that she missed if she blinked too slow. Six, or seven? 

“Well, I’ve got to measure you, don’t I? And all that extra cloth gets in the way. We want these to fit you nice, with just a bit of growing room.” Marge went on to mumble something about Sam needing to “fatten you up, just look at those boney arms,” but Eleanor’s ears were roaring, louder and louder and louder. She couldn’t hear a thing. 

She couldn’t think; she couldn’t think; she couldn’t _think_ — 

Eleanor must’ve said, “Okay,” must’ve agreed, because her hands were moving on their own accord, reaching up to undo the first button of her blouse without needing any guidance from her mind at all. But they shook so bad, these tremors that jerked at her fingers and strained her knuckles, that she couldn’t get the button free from the loop. Her breath rasped in her throat, coming quicker and quicker: it was like breathing through a straw. She squeezed her eyes shut. It was just a fucking button, just a fucking button. 

_(Whenever Grafton got irritated, truly irritated, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. This awful, wet sound. He did that now. Eleanor kept her eyes on the carpet, traced the pattern there with her eyes over and over again. Counted how many loops there were in a sequence. Sixteen. It was an ugly fucking carpet, she thought. She thought that every time. “Shirt. Off,”_ _he said after_ _he was done clicking, and she undid her buttons one-by-one. She did not raise her eyes to the belt. But still, her chest tightened with the anticipation of it, the slap against bare skin, and she couldn’t breathe._ She couldn’t breathe. _)_

She couldn’t breathe. 

If she saw the scars—if she told Sam, he wouldn’t want her anymore. Just seeing the burns trailing up her arms made his jaw flex, made his eyes go all dark and wet. She’d saw. It’d upset him. _He wouldn’t want her._ Eleanor gasped for air, moved her hand up to her throat like she could somehow coax out the breaths trapped within in. She couldn’t breathe. 

There was a concerned sound, this slight lilt of a question being asked. A shuffle. A brush of air. And then, there were hands on her arms again. 

Eleanor flinched so hard she swore it must’ve wrenched her shoulder out of socket. 

The hands left, but it didn’t matter. Eleanor sank to the floor, knees-to-chest, and clapped her hands over her head. Watched the world fall in a blur of colors, even behind closed lids. Like a flicker of flame, red and orange and terracotta. “Samuel,” and this she did hear, high-pitched and hysterical, sounding far off even though it must’ve been shouted right in front of her. Must’ve been _screamed_ to be heard through the water and sludge, the mud that clogged her ears, her throat. _“Sam!”_

There was a bang. The rattling of hinges. “Fuck,” a man’s voice said, and Eleanor thought she must’ve recognized it. Curled up as she was, all the soft parts tucked away, it was easier to focus, a little. “Get out, Marge. Go,” and there was an unsteady pause, “go and turn off the stove, please.” 

In response, there was a click of the door shutting once more. And footsteps, sharp and clear before becoming muffled by the carpet, sounding off closer and closer. It was followed by the creaking of old knees. She smelled Sam’s cologne, woodsy and a little sweet. Like vanilla and cedar. But it was so safe, curled up in the dark of her knees, so she just tightened her hands over her head. 

A sigh, soft but close enough that it ruffled her hair. “Eleanor,” Sam said. “Eleanor, love, what’s wrong?” She’d never been called _love_ before. 

“Please don’t be mad,” she whispered into the skin of her knees. 

“ _What_ _?_ ” 

“Please don’t be mad,” Eleanor gasped, ragged enough that it scraped, and felt the tears welling up in her throat. Salty, like sweat and blood and other unpleasant things. She swallowed them down. “I’m sorry. I tried to be good. I’m sorry—I’m _sorry_.” 

“Eleanor, no, _no._ ” 

“I’m so sorry. I-I, I—” She choked on her own breath, coughing and sputtering. 

“Hey, hey,” he shushed, and she could hear the fluttering of his clothes, the shifting fabric of the light cardigan he wore. “Just look at me, okay, love? Please just look at me.” 

Her arms ached, and her head pounded from the stress of holding back tears with nothing but a fraying strength of will. She let her hands fall from where they, without her knowledge, hand become entangled in her hair. Her scalp stung. “There we go now,” Sam said when she peeked out from behind her knees, raising her head to meet wide, concerned hazel eyes. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. “There’s my niece.” Eleanor shook her head, though at what she didn’t know, coughing again when she tried breathing in. 

“Whoa there. Just breathe with me, okay?” And Sam took in a deep breath, holding it in before letting it out again. Eleanor found her attention hyper-focused on the rise-and-fall of his chest. “In through the nose,” he said, “and now out through the mouth.” 

She wheezed on the first exhale, but by the third, it didn’t hurt much anymore. Sam looked almost boneless with relief. Eleanor stared down at her knees, felt her bottom lip begin wobbling. A damning tell she couldn’t shake. 

“Eleanor,” he breathed out, sounding like a deflating balloon, and her eyes shot up to look at him again. She would never get sick of hearing her name; she wondered if that was why he said it so often. “Eleanor, you don’t have to be sorry, okay? Not at all.” 

Eleanor shook her head, violent enough that her curls went flying. She had to clear her throat to speak, and her voice came out hoarse. “But I think I upset Mrs. Marge.” That damn fucking lip wobble again—it made her feel five-years-old; it made her feel small. “I was bad.” 

Seemingly speechless, Sam stared at her, knees on the carpet and hands limp at his sides. He was making that expression she’d feared before, where his eyes went all dewy, and he looked, for all the world, like she’d socked him in the jaw. Wounded. One of his hands, massive enough that it could wrap around her wrist two, three times, reached out. Up towards her face. Eleanor flinched her eyes closed. He sucked in an audible breath. 

This was it. This was it. 

But Sam just placed a hand on her cheek, cupped her jaw. His palm was softer than she thought it’d be, even with the callouses. It made Eleanor feel strange. Warm. If she pressed in closer, she worried the touch might burn her. 

_(“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady,” Grafton said, and his fingers had a tight grip on her jaw. She looked. She thought his eyes were very grey, and she didn’t want to think about what else she thought._

_Later, when she was in an empty lavatory, scrubbing at the crescent moons on her palms with soap that stung, she thought back to that moment, when his hands were on her chin, thumb and forefinger pinching the skin there. His nailbeds were well-maintained. Clean, pushed-back cuticles. Her mother had always taken good care of her nails. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady,” he’d said, and she had thought his eyes were very grey. She had thought that if he moved those fingers any higher, she’d bite them clean off, bite through blood and bone._ _She wondered if_ _she’d done it, if she’d be picking his veins out from between her teeth right about now._

_Eleanor ended up throwing up in the sink. God,_ _hopefully,_ _no one heard.)_

“Eleanor,” her uncle said, like trying to call to her from underwater, and she blinked. Couldn’t remember where she’d gone. “Eleanor, I’m never going to hit you. Not ever, y’ hear me?” 

And Eleanor said back, instant, “I hear you.” It was what she was supposed to say. 

Sam’s brows furrowed. “No,” he insisted. Brushed a curl from her eyes with a finger. It had a half-healed cut from what looked like garden shears. “I feel like you aren’t understanding me. Even if you think you’re bad—and you’re not, Eleanor, _you’re not._ But even if you ever are, I will _never_ hit you. Do you hear me?” 

“I hear you,” she said, and she almost believed it, too. 

Later, she told Marge that she’d like a green dress, maybe, if that was alright. And that she enjoyed mother-of-pearl buttons. Marge said she could have whatever she liked. She got measured in her shift, and Sam lounged on one of the couches, reading from a large tome with deckled edges. And it was alright. It was all alright. 

She wore that green dress when she met her father’s wife for the first time with her two children—her _half-siblings_ , she couldn’t comprehend it—in tow. Whenever Eleanor felt her nerves start to rise, her palms start to itch, she’d trace the daisies Mrs. Marge had embroidered on the sleeves and breathe a little deeper, a little steadier. 

When Sam had come to her, hands wringing nervously in the doorway of her bedroom, she hadn’t known what to think. Learning that her father had been married when he was with her mother... Well, that hadn’t been a shock. Married men had laid with her mother all the time; she may have been only six years old when she’d been taken to the orphanage, but she hadn’t been stupid. Or blind. She knew the look of a wedding ring, even if her mother had never worn one herself. 

Learning that Sam wanted her to _meet_ her late father’s family, his wife and his children... That had given her pause. Eleanor had stared at him, aghast, mouth agape; her attention entirely torn away from the journal in her lap. Her pen, still pressed deep into the paper, left a spreading stain over the dot of one of the i's, a black cloud of ink. She’d been practicing her cursive, the careful loops of it—Sam was in the process of picking out tutors for her, and she’d sworn to whatever higher power there was out there that she would _not_ be an embarrassment—but how ugly her uppercase S was no longer mattered. 

“Sam, they’ll hate me,” she’d blurted, digging her fingers into the fabric of her comforter. Sam had looked at her then, the agitated fidgeting of his fingers slowing to an abrupt stop, and he’d strolled over to sit beside her before she could barely blink. 

“It’s impossible to hate you,” he said, which Eleanor knew to be a lie. “And if they tried, they’d be out of _our_ house, wouldn’t they? Just like that.” 

And so, here they were. 

Josie Connolly was a woman who loomed over everyone around her without even trying, easily above six feet in her lace-up boots, and made all the taller with her hair piled high on her head, its color so dark it was near black. Like Grafton, she was thin in that fashionable way, slim wrists encased in lavender gloves and the curve of her cheek both sharp and soft, silk over steel. She peered down her nose at Eleanor from where she stood behind Sam, near hidden in his shadow. Sam stepped forward to take her coat, and never, never had Eleanor felt so exposed from one pair of grey eyes, so stripped down and flayed. Which was saying something. “She looks more like you than Will,” was the first thing past her lips, the slim line of her eyebrow raised in some sort of amusement gone sour. 

To be fair, Eleanor thought, being faced with your dead husband’s infidelity would make anyone bitter. 

Her uncle’s smile was a brittle thing. “Josie, good to see you. As always. Hello, Junior. Hello, Lottie. Merry Christmas.” 

That’d been another thing Sam had fretted over—whether a Christmas dinner would insult her Jewish sensibilities. Like she hadn’t grown up in a Roman Catholic orphanage. Or, perhaps, she noted, an amused curl to her mouth, that was why he asked at all. He always got scowly at the slightest mention of her time there, though he tried his best to hide it. 

It’d been almost cute, watching him leap up from the edge of her bed to pace the length of her bedroom, flinging his hands about in endless motion, his sleeves rolled up and the freckled skin of his forearms stark against the background of her dark green walls, recently painted. It was one of the first times that Eleanor thought they really looked related, like kin. The way he puffed stray strands of hair out of his eyes, his wrists too busy lolling this way and that. 

“You’re laughing at me,” he accused, once he’d paused long enough in his rant of telling her, for the fifth or sixth time, that her comfort was paramount, that they could schedule a different date—that'd it’d been Josie’s idea, anyhow, not his own—to actually take a good look in his niece’s direction. He sounded very pleased. 

“I’m not,” Eleanor protested, but she was still smiling. “Christmas dinner is fine, Sam, honest.” In truth, she’d liked Christmas back at the orphanage, if only because the sisters were nicer that time a year, less likely to strike out with the leather strap. Christmas cheer and all that. Besides, Christmas dinner was almost always more delicious than any other meal of the year, more plentiful: potatoes and chicken, green beans fresh from the market. One year, they’d even got slices of pumpkin pie. Christmas time was very kind to orphans, even Jewish ones. 

It hadn’t compared to making latkes with her mother for Chanukah—her mother had never allowed her to grate the potatoes, and she remembered, even now, watching with saucer-wide eyes as the pile of shreds grew and grew and grew, a small mountain on their kitchen table. The smell of onions caramelizing in Bubbe’s cast-iron skillet, the promise of them being jammy and sweet, almost buttery on her tongue. The bubbling of the vegetable oil on the stovetop. She’d scoop applesauce onto her mother’s latkes, heaps and heaps of it, until Anne scolded her for the mess. Withholding laughter that glittered behind her eyes. “You can’t fit all that into even _your_ big mouth!” Her fingers had always been so tender, wiping at the applesauce oozing from the sides of her mouth, down her sticky chin, that the memory of it all always made Eleanor want to shut her eyes, to wrap her arms around herself and lean into that great love again, even if only the remnants of it. 

Not to mention the honey and apples on Rash Hashanah, the perfect treat to her five-year-old eyes and tastebuds. And challah, eggy and so, so sweet: sweet as everything was meant to be in the New Year. The bread perfectly round, braided by her mother’s careful hands. Its top always so crunchy. Her mother hadn’t been a religious woman, not at all, but “Food is the language of love, my sweet, and our family has passed onto us so much of it.” No, Christmas couldn’t compare. 

But maybe all Christians were kinder on Christmas, even to the bastard children of cheating, bastard husbands too dead to curse their names. The thought perked her up. It felt like a silly hope, but one she was willing to cling to. “Besides,” Eleanor told her uncle, giving him her most nonchalant shrug, like the thought of meeting the family of the man she hadn’t been good enough for didn’t send a chill down her spine, like it was better than fine, “it’s just a dinner.” 

Just a dinner, indeed. 

The kids behind Josie were perfect and pretty in the way that made Eleanor’s teeth clench, that made her want to tuck her hands behind her back and scratch at the half-healed scar tissue, scaly and ugly, that stretched across her knuckles. She did not do that. 

The younger one, Charlotte, shot her (their) uncle a smile—there was a gap where one of her canines should’ve been. She looked like she belonged in a Monet painting, all strawberry blonde hair and soft pastels. Up close, Eleanor noted her eyes were the palest shade of green she'd ever seen. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Sam!” Their chins might’ve been the same, she thought, as she tried not to fidget when those pale, pale eyes fell on her face. 

William Jr., sixteen, was a carbon copy of his mother, already towering over all of them, even Josie, with skin so light it was translucent. “Merry Christmas.” His voice was nasally from what was probably a cold, if the red tip of his nose was any indicator. He didn’t look at her at all, trained his gaze studiously on Sam, on his mother, on the wall coat rack where he placed his winter jacket. On anything that wasn’t her. It wasn’t subtle. 

“This is Eleanor,” Sam said—like they couldn’t have known. Abruptly, he was behind her again, his hands curled around her shoulders; his presence warm at her back. It was almost baffling, how quickly Eleanor eased under his touch. Felt some of the tension leach out of her. She’d been grinding her teeth without even noticing it; her gums felt tender. _At least I’m doing it with you_ , she thought. _At least it’s you_. Josie’s eyes were narrowed in on her. Her own gaze trained on the woodgrain of their floor, Eleanor straightened her spine and choked out some form of a _hello, pleased to meet you_. And steeled herself for the rest of the day. _You’ve got this._

There was one thing she could say about the whole affair: dinner, at least, was delicious. Her plate was piled to the point of excess by Sam, slabs of dark turkey meat, stuffing and gravy, roasted potatoes with garlic, cranberry sauce, and some strange pancake-like side called Yorkshire pudding. By the time she was less than a third of the way through her meal, her fork not even scraping the bottom of the plate, her stomach had begun cramping to the point that she felt vaguely ill. 

Normally, she could get away with feeding scraps to the dogs when this happened, slipping them bits of fat among other treats under the tablecloth while Sam looked the other way, their teeth closing around the food so gentle their canines barely grazed her fingers at all. But Josie didn’t like dogs, apparently, so they were all out playing under the watch of Ms. Catherine. Eleanor longed to join them. She nibbled at a Brussels sprout. 

The small talk was unbearable. 

“Have you gotten your invitation yet?” Josie asked her brother-in-law, cutting her potatoes into dainty, bite-sized pieces. Sam arched a brow as if to say: _be more specific_. She gave a light scoff in reply, popping a morsel into her mouth and chewing carefully, lips pursed, before speaking up again. “Don’t be daft, Sam. You know I mean Leo Amery’s New Year's soirée.” 

Sam shrugged. He looked elegant in a way that Eleanor could never pull off. “I believe so. To be honest—I didn’t pay much attention.” 

Charlotte, who had lit up at the mention of the party, made more sprite than girl from the glittering of her eyes, shot an affronted scowl Sam’s way. Her nose crinkled. “You’re so boring, Uncle Sam! It’s going to be perfect this year—Mum promised I could go. The invitation said the theme's _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_!” It looked, for a moment, like she was about to start waving her hands around, enthusiasm clear in the way she vibrated in her chair, but a cool look from her mother had her settling back down. Her smile shrank. Still, she pushed on, in a much more sedate tone. “Summer in winter. Fairies and magic, isn’t that fun?” 

“Very fun,” Sam agreed, shooting her a smile, voice kind enough he seemed almost sincere, even to Eleanor’s ears. Charlotte smiled back, but her eyes were on Eleanor now, her head cocked to one side. 

“Are you going to come, Eleanor?” Maybe she was imagining it, but the younger girl seemed almost pleased at the thought. 

Josie clapped her hands, a thunderous sound that sent Eleanor into a fit of flinching. “Yes, how about it, Eleanor?” She said her name in this slick, mocking way that made her feel filthy just hearing it. 

Eleanor exchanged a frantic look with Sam from where he sat at the head of the table. Will Jr., who up to this point had been silent and motionless at her side besides the steady consumption of his plate, turned to look at her with his mother’s grey eyes. _Well?_ he asked. She opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words to speak. She could imagine nothing more hellish, dressed up just to be stripped to the bone by the sharks of London polite society. 

“Eleanor’s got time,” Sam responded for her, and there was a firmness, a finality, to his reply that had Josie straightening in her seat. It was quite the feat—her posture had already been impeccable. “And if I never had to go to one of those stuffy things again, it’d be eons too soon.” His smile had an edge, and Eleanor hid her own, blotting her mouth with her napkin. “Though, fairies do sound nice, Lottie. You’ll fit right in.” Lottie beamed at him from her place beside her mother. 

Whatever reply Josie had on the tip of her tongue, it was disrupted by one of the cooks trotting in, a jolly man named Joseph who clutched a large platter in his hands. Following close behind was June, a part-time maid, who darted about the table with whispered apologies as she gathered up plates and used silverware. Eleanor forked over her still overflowing plate with poorly-hidden relief. June stopped just long enough to tut at her, a smile lingering at the corner of her mouth. “You’re too thin by half, miss,” she scolded, quiet enough not to be heard over Lottie, who in a surge of passion, started regaling to Sam her recent sewing project, something about embroidering a landscape into the hem of a dress. If she weren’t her half-sister, only a year out from her father’s death and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his widow, Eleanor would want to pick her brain for what exactly that entailed. 

“I’m saving up for dessert,” Eleanor lied with the bat of her lashes. June just shook her head and moved on to hoist Junior’s empty plates on top of the pile. Meanwhile, Joseph had sat several dishes in the center of their table: a fruitcake, a Yule log, and to Eleanor’s equal amount of dread and delight, what looked like an apple tart. 

_This is the end of me_ , she thought, eyes wide. “Thank you, Mr. Joe,” she murmured as the man walked past, and he shot her a grin before disappearing through the door with a whirl of his apron. By the time she had looked away from him and back towards the table, Sam had set a sizeable slice of apple tart right in front of her, the filling already oozing onto the plate. She shot him a look of betrayal. The corner of his mouth quirked up, even as his eyes blew wide in mock-innocence. 

For a blissful moment, there was just the sound of forks hitting ceramic and a pleased hum or two. Even Josie picked through her slice of Yule log with something close to relish, patting away imaginary crumbs or smears of chocolate ganache between bites. It was almost peace, that thrum of tension from the start near silent. 

Then Junior opened his mouth for perhaps the first time since they sat at the table, head twisted Eleanor’s way. “D’ you even _celebrate_ Christmas, Eleanor?” Silence. He said her name the same way his mother did: like it was something rotten in his mouth. Like it was something to be spat out. Josie’s face peeled back into a smile. 

It would’ve been beautiful if her eyes weren’t so cold. 

“Um,” Eleanor stuttered and could’ve heard a pin drop. Charlotte’s head perked up in interest over her tart, and Sam opened his mouth to speak, so she pushed onward. “I _did_ celebrate it. At the orphanage with everyone else, like I’m doin’ with you. But no, um, I don’t personally celebrate Christmas.” She thought it sounded rather diplomatic of her. Sam’s shoulders uncurled, just a little. 

“Right,” Junior pushed onward, and he leaned into her direction far enough she could almost feel his breath on her face. The high points of his cheeks were very pink. “Because Da didn’t just fuck a whore, he had to fuck a _Jew_ , too.” 

Eleanor didn’t know what to say to that. It was true. Sam looked like he wanted to spit. “William—” 

Josie cut in, clearing her throat and scolding, “Now, Junior, language,” but it was the most pleased Eleanor had ever seen her. Lottie looked pale, even paler than usual, slinking back into her seat, sweet tooth forgotten; she looked so much smaller than before, this girl who already had Eleanor beat by a few inches at eleven years old. That thrum rose to a near roar. 

Sam scraped his fork across his empty plate, a deafening, obvious screech. It cut through the tension like a knife through butter. “I’m getting awful tired, Josie,” he said like there were several things he was getting tired of right about now. But his tone softened, directed towards Charlotte. “My old age must be catching up to me.” 

Eleanor didn’t look up from the tart, uneaten, on her plate. Josie’s voice grated, smooth and polished as it was. “Well, it’s getting late.” Junior didn’t say anything at all; his eyes were still burning a spot into her cheek. 

They left with the adjusting of coats and kisses and hugs sent Sam’s way, and only Lottie waving her a goodbye, a simple wiggle of her fingertips before her mother grabbed her wrist and _tugged._ The closing of the door sounded like a gun going off. _Bang._

Staring into the empty space where they once were, Eleanor didn’t really know how to feel, her body slumping into a chair set up against the wall of the wide entryway. She sank, boneless, into the countless throw pillows, covering her eyes with the palm of her hand. Her head pounded. “You didn’t have to make them leave, y’ know. It's okay that they're mad at me.” 

Sam let out a sigh that was equal parts exasperated and fond. “Eleanor, what did I say when we first discussed them coming over?” 

_I know what you said. Still._ “But they’re your family,” she insisted, pulling back her hand to glare up at him. 

“So are you.” 

Sam looked at her, backdropped by the several feet long pastoral painting behind him, and must have seen something in her expression—bewilderment, maybe, or discomfort at that bewilderment—because he let out a great sigh. With a rustle of clothing, he crouched in front of her, his forearms resting against his thighs. The set of his jaw said, _look at me._ And so, she looked. Really looked. He still had a smile for her, small and warm. 

“And I like you better,” Sam told her, eye-to-eye with her now, and his words spoken with that sort of earnestness in his voice and demeanor that he always had around her, that made her ache when she lingered on the thought of it too long. Like poking at a still-healing bruise. Eleanor tucked her smile into her hand, but it didn’t matter: he grinned back. 

The Chelsea Physic Garden glasshouses were some of the most beautiful structures Eleanor had ever seen in her twenty-four years. The long glass panels stretched high above her head, matching on either side and meeting in the middle. Plants bracketed her and Sam, the foliage so thick it near shielded their guide from sight, a stout, middle-aged man with his eyes on his watch ever since Sam told him a verbal tour was unnecessary. 

Huge benches ladened with terracotta pots, blossoming with blues and pinks and purples and reds. Pops of color so bright they were practically eyesores. She thought The Garden of Medicinal Plants’ section on herbal remedies had been her favorite, based on smell alone, or maybe the pond at the center of the garden itself, chock-full of lily pads and mosses, boggy and messy and _alive_ , rife with aquatic life, but this, _this_ took the cake. 

Eleanor was staring, eyes growing bigger and bigger as she tried to take it all in, when Sam knocked into her arm with something sturdy. It crinkled against the sleeve of her blouse—the present he’d brought with him, tucked safely underneath his arm no matter how much she whined and cajoled. “Finally caving, old man?” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Just take it, old woman.” He bugged out his eyes, all drama. “Twenty-four! Already one foot in the grave.” She ripped it out of his fingers with a bark of a laugh. 

“I doubt you’ve got more than a pinky toe in yours. Gonna outlast us all, remember?” 

It was his turn to laugh. “Just open it, Eleanor. Before I go greyer, yeah?” 

Eleanor could live the rest of her life without another gift, but the sound of ripping through wrapping paper was still one of her favorites. All the destruction without any of the guilt. She peeled back the final layer and went still. “Oh,” she whispered, breathy, near soundless. 

It was a flower dictionary, with deckled edges that fit the tips of her fingers perfectly, the leather of the cover worn and well-loved. The gilded title sent a rush of familiar fondness through her, a rush so strong she was almost dizzy. She laughed. “Where’d you find this? It looks exactly the same.” Exactly the same as the one she’d gotten for her first birthday from Sam, fourteen years old and curious about anything she could get her hands on. Sam hadn’t really seen the appeal in the language of flowers, she knew, but he’d indulged her anyway. It’d been the only thing she’d asked for that year, the only thing she’d really wanted. 

She’d used it for years, a great reference for whenever she wanted to sketch a particular flower, but it’d been chewed up by Sweet Pea right before she turned eighteen years old, made a total ruin of slobber and teeth indents, the ink all smeared and the spine cracked clean down the middle. An apparently rare edition he’d scrounged up for the first time at an old bookstore in East London, she thought she’d never see the likes of it again. 

“I have my ways.” Laughing again, Eleanor just shook her head, grinning so wide it hurt. 

There was an odd bump between the pages, a groove where everything else was smooth, and when Eleanor went to inspect it, expecting a bent page, she found a pressed flower instead. Bookmarking a page of tiny, yellow petals and even tinier rows of font, was a celandine plant, its ruffled leaves still attached. Perfectly preserved. 

“I did some reading,” he explained, when Eleanor couldn’t get herself to speak. She shook her head until she could breathe right again. 

“You’re such a sap.” 

He gave her that smile, the one just for her. And Eleanor tucked the book tight against her chest, holding on. She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Ready to go home?” 


	4. Honeysuckle (My Devoted Affection)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Eleanor pursue a game of who can flirt in the pettiest manner possible.

When Tommy Shelby walked into Flora’s early September after checking in with management at the Rover factory, he expected a familiar redhead, all freckled and paint-splatted with her brown eyes glaring up at him: a one woman-army about to strike. Her chin tilted in challenge like she wasn’t baring her throat to him of all people. 

Instead, he got an older woman, the shop owner, looking at him with a shrewdness that scrunched the lines of her tired face and the same little girl from that first time, the back of her homemade haircut ducking into the backroom at the first look of him. He knew Ms. Cora Evans by reputation only—she'd been a rallying cry in the local communist party in her younger years, and even two decades later, people whispered about her brawling in bars with the wealthy men that visited Small Heath for its cheap liquor and cheaper whores. 

Now, she stood before him with a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “Mr. Shelby,” she greeted from one of the wooden tables, wrist-deep in a terracotta pot. “Can I ‘elp you?” A pause, where he merely surveyed the shop before him, looking but not seeing. There weren’t any watercolor tins on the tables. No fingerprints of chalk pastels or the bent spine of a book. 

Tommy gave a slow blink in her direction. “Perhaps. D’ you arrange gardens?” It was Ms. Evans’ turn to blink. 

“Rarely. But sometimes, yes.” 

He nodded, kept his eyes wandering throughout the shop, lingering on random stalks of exotic flowers, bright red like blooms of blood suspended in air. “I've got a job for you, then.” He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he reached into his pocket for his cigarette case. 

A cigarette was already between his lips when she replied. There was a wry twist to her mouth. “Mr. Shelby, do you not have a gardener, sir?” _You can certainly afford a full-time one_ , her eyes seemed to say. Taking a long drag, he rested his cigarette between two fingers. Blew out a curl of smoke that twined around the bouquets. 

“I have four.” Ms. Evans stared; he did not elaborate. 

“I’m not following,” she admitted. 

“My wife, she was fond of our gardens”—this was a lie; Grace couldn’t have cared less about the state of their gardens, as long as they were suitable for the guests she wanted to swindle—“and I’ve been looking into getting them redone, as of late. I could use some assistance.” He flicked his eyes to the ceiling. 

Ms. Evans’ face changed, this near-imperceptible shift; she looked, abruptly, like she understood very well what he was looking for. Her eyes darted, lightning-quick, to the ceiling as well. There was a creak coming from above, the sound of footsteps, feather-soft. _What kind of grown-ass man still goes by the name_ Tommy _?_ “I may ‘ave someone who can do that for you, sir,” she said, slowly as though forcing it past her lips. She didn’t look pleased. He took another drag of his cigarette and gestured, with the incline of his head and a curl of smoke trailing from his mouth, for her to continue on. 

“You sure this is the right place?” Eleanor asked, eyes threatening to pop out of her head. Jamie nodded, and slack-jawed, she turned back to the towering Victorian home before her. Don’t get her wrong, she’d expected some degree of wealth to be able to hire a garden planner, but this—this was beyond her imagination. 

Maybe that said something about her, that she was still shocked by wealth after all these years, but holy _fuck_ , this whole place radiated new wealth in all its extravagance, old elements made new and full of dramatic flair from the stone pillars that framed the entrance to the sundial clock that gleamed just beside the house. Way more over-the-top expensive with all the statues and the front lawn fountain in a way that Sam never had to flaunt to prove. 

The red brick was lovely, Eleanor admitted to herself, itching for her tin of pastels. 

“This is Arrow House,” Jamie said with a wrinkle to his nose like the introduction was poison on his tongue; he was giving her a strange look that made her skin prickle. His eyes were hot against her face. He reached out to place a long-fingered hand on her shoulder, fingertips brushing the fabric of her cardigan; she just barely avoided shrinking back from his touch. “You don’t have to go. Auntie Cora could go herself.” 

Eleanor stared, incredulous before she let her eyes drift off-to-the-side, racking her brain for whatever might have caused this response. She couldn’t think of one. “I think I’ll be alright, Jamie, but, um—thank you? For the reassurance.” 

Jamie was Cora’s nephew from an estranged, long-dead older brother—an odd sort, only nineteen or twenty, he always shot her long, heated looks whenever he stopped by. Lingering in the shop just to stare, only sharing with her a handful of words. It always felt like he was glaring, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what she might've done to provoke him. The idea of him being her driver for the next two months or so while she coordinated this project made her skin crawl. 

Still, she should be more thankful. Cora had needed someone to drive her to this job every few days, and he’d stepped forward without complaint. There was no way she could’ve walked. And, even with the stares-maybe-glares, he’d never been less than polite to her, really. 

“So, this is my stop,” she blurted, once they’d made it to the end of the driveway, and the car was in park. She threw open the door before he could even contemplate stepping out of the vehicle to open it for her. If she had any say, chivalry would stay dead. “Thank you for the drive. Bye now.” And she swung her legs out of her seat, hopping out of the car before he could open his mouth to respond. Her boots crunched on the gravel. She was ashamed to admit it—but she practically bolted to the front door. 

Arrow House, a hulking figure above her. 

Eleanor hadn’t even lifted her hand to knock when the door swung open; she stumbled back a step. A dark-haired woman stood on the other side, dressed in subdued colors with a nervous but bright smile already on her face. _Staff_ , she thought, the recognition immediate, and hated herself for knowing the difference. 

The woman introduced herself as Frances, the head housekeeper, as she ushered Eleanor inside of the home, already prattling on about the new garden and the head of the house. She listened with half-an-ear, a polite smile fixed onto her features as she fiddled with the charms on her bracelet, but the distraction only lasted until she heard, “I’m afraid the house has been a bit neglected as of late, what with the mistress of the house passing on. Mr. Shelby—” 

Her eyes, which had been gazing absently around the coatroom, snapped to Frances; her neck cracked at such a jostling speed. “I’m sorry, but did you just say _Mr. Shelby_? As in, Thomas Shelby?” _Un-_ fucking _-believable._

Frances cocked her head, just so. “Yes,” she said, measured and careful as if to soothe whatever feathers she thought she may have inadvertently ruffled. Eleanor couldn’t imagine what look must’ve been pasted across her face. She stuffed shaking fists into the large pockets of her cardigan. “That _is_ the name your employer gave you, yes?” the housekeeper pressed, maybe at the sudden worry that she’d just invited some strange woman into her place of work. Eleanor was too busy getting hit with a sudden epiphany, sharp as any slap. 

Cora hadn’t given her a name at all. Just an address and a vague idea of what project laid before her, and she was realizing, now, that maybe that should’ve been a sign this whole debacle wasn’t meant to go her way. “Have you met Mr. Shelby before, miss?” 

“Once or twice,” Eleanor replied, voice audibly dry, and Frances blinked at her. Inwardly, Eleanor seethed. _That paranoid bastard. He’s keeping an eye on me!_ Too many run-ins had left Mr. Shelby an apparently very suspicious man, she just knew it. Her teeth ground together, straining at her jaw. 

Poor Frances, probably unsure how to reply to the sudden hostility emanating from her very pores, ushered her into the main parlor, and sure enough, looming like some angel, Eleanor locked eyes with Mrs. Grace Shelby from above the winding staircase, her portrait impeccable in white, gauzy and ethereal. Her painted, dead eyes. 

She felt a shiver ricochet along her spine. 

“She was very pretty, don’t you think? Never had the pleasure of meeting her, myself.” 

“Beautiful,” Eleanor murmured, and she held her breath until she felt those eyes quit her, left behind, unable to follow into the next room. 

The walk to the back garden was swift—with Frances offering her a glass of water she politely declined and with Eleanor craning her head this way and that, though whether she was looking at the fine architecture or for a familiar pair of blue eyes, even she wasn’t sure. 

Her first thought when she reached the back garden was this: _fuck, that’s a lot of hedges_. Immaculate hedges, with two rows of long cylinders stretching to the sky and framed with white statues covered in moss. Brick pathways trailed into reflection pools. A great Lebanon cedar curled its limbs into a perfect haven of shade, a single wooden swing dangling from its thickest branch. It was lovely. But. 

_I can do better_ , Eleanor thought. It was lovely, yes, certainly, but boring. 

No room for wild things to grow. 

At least there was an herb garden, she noted. And up against the kitchen, there was a long brick wall perfect for soaking up the sun. Peaches in the summer, her brain sounded off immediately, thinking back to lemonade on days so humid her clothes stuck to her like a second skin. And honeysuckle—yes, so much honeysuckle. Until there were more vines than brick. 

She pulled her pocket sketchbook out from the depths of her cardigan. Inside, there was already a sizeable list of flowers written down for the fall season: asters, mums, peonies, cornflowers, helianthus, larkspur, and chrysanthemums, among others. Frances, who hovered at her side with an awkward shift to her step, shot her a quizzical look as she patted down her pockets for a pen. Resolve steeled her nerves. 

_I’m going to make the most stellar goddamned garden this nosy fuck has ever seen_ , she promised herself, felt the manic gleam in her eye even though she couldn’t see it for herself. “Frances?” she asked, receiving a hum and a soft _yes, miss?_ in reply. Eleanor shot her one of her most sunshine-esque smiles. The sort that forced people into smiling back. “Would your gardeners happen to have a log of all current plants here on the property, even the dormant ones?” She had work to do. 

A pattern formed in the next two weeks: Jamie with his eerie stares would drive her to work, often with seeds and cuttings tucked away in his backseat, scattering soil into the nooks-and-crannies of his interior, and Eleanor would work for hours out in the gentle September sun, detailing the layout she was envisioning in her mind in the pages of her sketchbook and organizing with the _four fucking gardeners_ that worked on the property. 

Not once did she catch a glimpse of Tom. Not even a glimmer of his pocket watch catching the light. 

It was pissing her off. 

She’d been so sure, so fucking sure that this had been some grand plan to reveal her true motives; she’d seen the look in his eyes that afternoon in Sam’s office, the way he’d clenched his jaw and stared at her with an expression colored with accusation. Tom seemed like a man unused to coincidences, who planned to the point of obsession. Always finding hidden meanings, even making them up himself if he couldn’t pick and tease one out with his clever eyes, clever fingers. This was a gambling man who, paradoxically, didn’t believe in chance. 

Or, at least, she’d thought so, but it’d been two weeks— _two weeks_ —with no sign of him at all. Had he really just wanted someone to redesign his back garden? Did he even know it was her here, and not Cora? 

Either way. _Either way_ , it didn’t matter. _It didn’t._ She hadn’t seen any part of him since her birthday, no, but it wasn’t like she cared to see him again, anyway. He could stay gone. 

This, of course, all changed on Week Three. 

At first, she didn’t know what to think when a maid came out into the garden in a rush, holding a squalling baby in her twig-thin arms, her face white with nerves. It was clear this was unfamiliar to her—the baby held out too far away from her body, her face twisted in awkward terror. In the two weeks she’d been here, Eleanor had heard the occasional giggle of a child from somewhere within the house, high and bright and sweet enough to bring a smile to her lips, but she hadn’t known the source of it—if it was a visitor’s, or one of the staff’s kids. She didn’t know if Tom had any kids. Eleanor tried imaging it, him lifting a baby up high in his arms, an actual smile on his face, and got so flustered she nearly stabbed herself with the point of her own pencil. 

Now, the maid was only a few feet from her, bouncing the bundle in her arms and emitting a loud shushing that made Eleanor wince; the baby screamed on, its little face hidden from somewhere within the woman’s shoulder, only its brilliant red ears exposed. Chubby arms and fists and legs squirming this way and that. “Charlie,” Eleanor heard her say, too loud, and she winced again as the next protest was near deafening, more of an ungodly shriek than a baby’s cry. “Charlie, love, _please_ stop crying. Isn’t the air so nice today?” 

“No, no, no, _no_ ,” the baby, Charlie, whined, before dissolving into babbling and sobs. The woman seemed near tears herself. 

Eleanor looked down at her spot, kneeling in the grass and dirt, a sketchbook in her filthy hands and a bucket of honeysuckle cuttings in water, their roots finally grown enough to plant. Then she looked back to the maid, her flushed face and damp eyes, and the baby having a proper tantrum in her arms. “Fuck,” she muttered to herself, low under her breath, already wiping soil-encrusted hands onto her skirt. Her sketchbook, closed now, fell to the side. She tucked her pencil behind her ear. 

“Miss?” she called out, wrinkling her nose at the unsure lilt in her voice. Her knees cracked when she stood; she wiped her fingers one last time against her thighs. The woman jumped. “Can... Um. Would you like me to hold him for you?” 

The maid looked torn; her eyes went wide with something like hope. She glanced between Eleanor and Charlie, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, gnawing at her ravaged bottom lip. “You’re... the new gardener, yeah?” she asked, voice rising above the shrieking. Eleanor nodded. “I-I,” she swallowed hard, shifted to her other foot. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m not sure. Mr. Shelby, he’s very particular about who’s ‘round his boy.” She sniffled, slumped her shoulders. The way she rocked the baby in her arms seemed to soothe her more than him. Once she started speaking, it was like she couldn’t stop. A dam broken. “Mrs. Smith couldn’t watch ‘im today, and Ms. Frances is at a doctor’s appointment—she's come down with somethin’. But I’ve got so many chores to be doin’, and I can’t, I can’t lose this—” 

_So, it is his kid, then._ Eleanor tried scrounging up her most charming smile. “Tom and I are friends,” she said, butting in before the poor woman could work herself into a frenzy; she tried controlling her expression into one of neutral helpfulness. Innocence personified. God, she was such a shit liar. _Is it a lie?_ some traitorous part of her brain whispered. She told it to shove it. “I’m sure it’d be alright for me to watch him while you go get your chores done.” She pushed her smile to shine one notch brighter. “Please. Let me help you out.” _Please, hearing this baby bawl his eyes out is making me sick to my stomach._

And that’s how she ended up with a baby in her arms. 

Now sitting on a nearby bench, Eleanor did her best to soothe the upset baby, feeling guilt gnaw at her gut as she bounced him on her knee, rubbing at his back with one hand. She was a stranger—though seemingly, not much more of a stranger than the maid had been—and she worried she’d cause more harm than good, scaring the poor thing half-to-death with the unfamiliarity of her presence. She looked down at Charlie just as he let out a hiccupping sob in her arms, his eyes scrunched shut. 

“Hi, Charlie,” she whispered, soft enough that it probably couldn’t be heard over the sobbing, “I’m Eleanor. Did you know you look very much like your mama?” Charlie looked up at her, then, with big blue eyes and a wobbling lower lip, and Eleanor felt her heart clench painfully in her chest. He whimpered at her. There was a snot bubble oozing from his nose. 

“Oh, I know, honey, I know.” With a bit of maneuvering, she managed to pull out her handkerchief from one of her pockets—all skirts and dresses should have pockets, or really, what was the point?—and went about wiping the snot and tears from his face with gentle strokes, talking all-the-while. “It’s okay that you’re upset. My uncle always says that crying it all out makes us feel better—I'm not sure if he’s right about that, but he’s a wiser man than me. All those years really add up.” Charlie fussed a little, tilting his head to one side, but he didn’t fight her as she cleaned up his face. “I know I always feel better after washing up, though. Nobody likes a wet face.” He blinked up at her, quiet now. “You’re being so good, Charlie. Thank you—you're such a good boy.” And on-and-on she rambled until his face was dry and he was flopped over, near boneless, against her chest. 

“Yeah,” she agreed, slumping back against the bench, “that wore me out, too.” 

He seemed content to just lay there awhile, while she grazed his back with her fingers, a barely-there pressure. But it didn’t last. Feeling his eyes on her, she peered down at him. His attention was glued to her red curls, some of which had fallen out of her hair grips and into her eyes; he made a grabby gesture with his chubby hands. A soft sound escaped his throat, followed by “Peas-pease” over and over. _Please?_ Eleanor held in a coo. 

“Alright, alright,” she laughed, ducking down her head until all the curls fell within reach. Several were immediately placed into an iron grip. “Careful,” but she didn’t even wince when he began tugging, light pulls that made her scalp twinge. 

It went on like this for a while, her keeping up a steady commentary while he jerked around and played with her hair, with her only stopping him if he tried placing it in his mouth. At one point, she pulled out some of the honeysuckle blooms from within her pocket—she liked snacking on them, what could she say?—and with one of Charlie’s hands still wound in her hair, she began showing him how to extract the nectar, taking off the end with a nail and pulling out the white stem until it pooled out in a single drop. She placed the flower in his small hand, fixed up her own, and mimed bringing it up to her lips to taste until he did the same. Eyes lit up with wonder that made her chest feel as bubbly as freshly popped champagne. 

This peace was disrupted just as quick as a popped bubble. 

Tom charged out into the garden right as she was repeating her name back to him, grinning so hard her face ached. He caught them with her mid-cheer and with Charlie babbling, “El-El-El" between bursts of giggles. 

It was his panting breath that made her look up. 

This was a Thomas Shelby she’d never seen before, a frantic twitch to his fingers, eyes wider than she’d ever seen them; near black, they were dilated with what could've only been pure fright. Hair matted to his forehead. In the wildness of him, all instinct, she could almost see the frenzy of his thoughts printed across his face, a broken litany of _where is he, where is he, where is he?_ It was clear he couldn’t tear himself away from his son, his eyes only for Charlie; he moved in such a blur that he was already to the other side of the bench in a blink or two, and up this close, she could see his chest heaving for breath. It was a reaction far more extreme than she ever could’ve imagined from him. _What the fuck happened to you?_ She didn’t dare ask. 

“Tom,” Eleanor breathed out, voice falling into something soothing before she could even mull it over: it was the same tone, the same cadence she’d used with Charlie, earlier. “Hey. Hey, he’s right here.” 

Charlie seemed to perk up. His head whipped to the side, looking up with a squint. He beamed, tugging at one of her curls in his excitement. She fought a hiss of pain, bent her head further to lessen the tension his grip had put on her scalp. “Da!” 

Thomas Shelby was the last sort of person she ever expected to collapse, but she couldn’t describe it any other way—how he almost crumpled into the spot next to her, his whole weight leaning back against the bench. Charlie leaned to the side, still confined to her lap, until his fingers scraped against his father’s cheek: this sloppy caress. Tom cradled that hand between one of his, held it to his face for a moment, eyes shut. Breathed in, breathed out. Pressed a kiss to his son’s palm. 

“Hey, Charlie.” That tension had unwound itself from his shoulders. She’d never heard someone sound so tender before. Charlie babbled at him, but she didn’t hear any of it. Eleanor just watched, holding her breath, afraid the force of it might brush the moment away. Easy as blowing an eyelash off your finger. 

After what felt like a lifetime, Tom let go of his son’s hand, and when he opened his eyes, they caught hers instantly. Eleanor couldn’t imagine how she looked, head bent at an awkward angle, hair in her eyes, and a fistful of curls wrapped around his son’s fingers. She looked at him through a curtain of dark red, not even attempting to puff any of it out of her field of vision. Eleanor recognized a lost cause when she saw one. 

Thomas’ attention focused back on his son. “So, I see you met a new friend, eh?” He brushed back his son’s hair, giving him a smile that put crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Eleanor swallowed hard. 

Charlie just smiled back. “El,” he agreed, bright. He wound his fingers in her hair even tighter than before, and she couldn’t hold back the flinch this time around, shutting her eyes against the pain. A bald spot was in her future. 

There was that silence that almost always seemed to plague any of their encounters, this heaviness to the air that made her skin prickle. And then there was another set of fingers in her hair, untangling Charlie’s grasp with barely a tug. Her eyes shot open. “Gentle now, Charlie,” Tom chided, voice still so soft, and she feared her face was going to burn clean off. Scar the kid for life. 

Eleanor straightened up when he was through, raking a hand through her hair to hide the blush consuming her face faster than a wildfire, probably redder than the curls on her head. She peered at Tom through her fingers in that brief moment, studying the nervous clench of his jaw, the bob of his throat. Charlie was whining, his little hand held between his father’s thumb and pointer finger, wiggling his fingers in Eleanor’s direction, or specifically, the direction of her curls. “No! El!” 

She huffed out a laugh. “Let me recover first, huh, sweetheart?” she asked but offered up her hand instead. Tom dropped his son’s hand, and in a blink, an entire fist was wrapped around her pointer and middle fingers, squeezing with all its baby strength. Those blue eyes, just like his father’s, lit up—pacified for now. 

_I’m already halfway in love. This kid is dangerous._

“You’re precious,” she told Charlie, as seriously as she could muster, and he shot her a gap-toothed smile in reply. She flicked her eyes up to Tom, who looked at her with a queer expression she couldn’t name, his brows furrowed as his attention flickered between her face and the baby still in her lap. “He’s precious.” 

He nodded, “That he is.” His arms were crossed on his chest, face shuttered from her. Eleanor gave him a lopsided smile, tried making it sweet. 

“He’ll be swindling people with a smile in no time,” she told him, half of her focused on him, the other half trying to keep her dirt-caked nails out of Charlie’s mouth. Her next words came out careful, nearly bitten back. “He... uh. He looks a lot like his mother. Minus the eyes.” 

She darted her eyes to study his response, worried maybe she went too far. But his face was studiously blank, just as it was before. From within the pocket of his pants, he pulled out a cigarette case, lighting up a Sweet Afton with steady fingers. When he eventually nodded, it was with a sharp jerk of his chin and a stream of smoke billowing from between his lips. He didn’t say anything beyond that nod. Eyes on her. She averted her own gaze, found herself tucking in the fragile skin of her free arm tighter against Charlie’s side without quite knowing why. Charlie’s curious fingers had moved on from her own and were now exploring the skin of her wrist, tracing old scars. It didn’t make her as uncomfortable as she thought it would. Eleanor chewed the inside of her cheek. 

This time the pause lingered. 

His voice startled her. “You spoke to her at the charity gala?” 

It took a minute for her to scramble her thoughts into some semblance of order, but she was already shaking her head. Charlie babbled softly to himself. “No, I didn’t get the time to. We, uh, left early. Sam gets migraines, sometimes, in public places.” God, she didn’t know why she was explaining herself. Why did he make her ramble like this? She wanted to tap at her ear for emphasis, but her hands were busy. “He’s deaf in one ear. No, I spoke to your wife at her luncheon. The one at the Midland?” 

He didn’t reply, just inclined his head as if to say _go on_. There was something ravenous in his eyes, something desperate like he wanted to consume every last bit of Grace he could get his hands on. Even just her scraps. So, go on, she did. It hadn’t been a request. “I may have—well—I may have come on a bit strong when we met. I sort of interrogated her?” Her smile was an embarrassed one. Tom cocked his head. “I had a bit of a... personal interest, let’s say. In how the orphanage was going to be managed. I sprang a bunch of questions on her. About two whiskey sours into the afternoon.” 

She ducked her chin and ended up pressing it into the top of Charlie’s head. He seemed more than fine with it, engrossed as he was with tracing the lines of her veins, even tucking himself back against her chest. “She handled herself well—your wife. Impressive.” She laughed. “Terrifying.” 

“Terrifying?” Tom asked then, an arch to his brow. He didn’t look doubtful of her statement. Amused, mostly. There was a glimmer of surprise in his eyes. Eleanor imagined that was a description rarely used for the petite blonde woman, perfectly done up with a demure smile as her main accessory. People were blind. 

Eleanor grinned at him. “I know how to spot a predator. Your wife was one.” 

Tom scoffed, but a smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, and there it was, a breathless, hopeless sort of longing all woven into his voice. Eleanor looked away. “Yeah, she was.” 

Charlie turned his head from underneath her chin and held in his fist was a crumpled honeysuckle flower. He must’ve fished it out of her pocket. He offered it out to his father with a hopeful pout to his mouth. “Daddy,” he insisted, his cheek still smooshed against her collarbone, shoving it at him again when Tom didn’t move to take it fast enough. “Da, Da, Da! Here.” 

Tom gave her a look. She shrugged. “I showed him how to get the nectar out,” she explained, but he was already going through the motions, taking out the stem and bringing up to his lips to suck. Eleanor stared. And stared some more. 

“Um,” she asked, breathy, “actually, do you have the time?” She sent a pointed look at his pocket watch. Her cheeks felt hot all over again. 

He smirked at her, too knowing. “Five fifteen.” 

_Oh, fuck._

Embarrassment forgotten; Eleanor felt herself balk. “Fuck,” she mouthed silently to herself, remembering the little boy sprawled across her lap. “My ride’s probably here,” she said, making a panicked expression at Charlie in her lap. His dad taking the flower seemed to settle him somehow, and now he was curled up against her thighs, almost dozing. She could never understand how babies went from zero to one-hundred so quickly. It was impressive. 

She bit her lip. The idea of moving him when he was so peaceful, lashes fluttering in near-sleep, felt like a stab to the chest. Tom let out an almost-laugh. “I’ve got him,” he said, and in one clean movement, he was scooping the slackened body of his son into his arms. Charlie made a sleepy noise of protest, pressing his face into his father’s neck. He flicked an arm in Eleanor’s direction, reaching out. 

“El,” he mumbled, barely coherent, “El, back.” 

Eleanor, already off the bench and stretching her numb legs, felt her heart stop and restart. _Three-fourths in love already. You’re way more charming than your father._ Eleanor leant down and took that hand in her own, rubbing it with her thumb. Charlie hummed. “Bye, Charlie.” She glanced at Tom. He was already looking up at her with that same odd expression from before. “Maybe I’ll see you again if your papa isn’t stingy with you.” 

She saw them both again exactly a week later. 

Her and Allen, one of the gardeners, were relaxing under the shade of a tiny, bistro patio table—it wasn’t hot weather, not in mid-September, but with Allen’s skin being so white it reflected light, she’d conceded to join him in a brief break. Allen rambled on about the new layout of the left sidewall, and Eleanor nodded along, humming in agreement here and there, her head dipped into her sketchbook. She was shading in a bunch of flowers she’d drawn, just random organic shapes she’d scribbled at the corner of a page, when she heard it. Eleanor dropped her pencil. Allen _cackled_. His eyes focused on somewhere past her shoulder. 

“El, El, El!” a chant rising in volume the faster it approached. 

“I’m goin’ to check on the other boys,” he told her, a smirk contained to his eyes. “You have fun with yours.” 

Eleanor choked. Earnestly, she replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” but he was already gone. Flustered, she took a deep breath before whipping to face the racket behind her. Seeing them both there, only a few steps away, Tom with his sleeves rolled up and Charlie in his arms—and God, she’d been too busy to consider it before, but he really was the biggest baby she’d ever seen, all solid and sturdy—with his bitty palms stretched out towards her, his juice-stained mouth peeled back in an elated smile, it made her stomach do somersaults. 

“Charlie,” she cheered a little despite herself, eyes crinkling hard. She slid a sly look Tom’s way. “Your dad does have a heart, after all!” Eleanor stretched out her arms and made a gesture identical to Charlie’s, scrunching her fingers in a _gimme-gimme_ manner unbefitting of a twenty-four-year-old woman. But a little boy was deposited in Eleanor’s lap without much fanfare, so she couldn’t be damned to muster up some embarrassment. 

Charlie leaned into her in a baby’s version of a hug, pressing his cheek to a place just below her collarbone. “Hi,” he babbled, and Eleanor cooed, running a hand through the hair curling at the nape of his neck. 

“Hi, Charlie.” And she grinned stupidly to herself for what felt like minutes, biting at her lip to stifle the pure giddiness she felt. She failed. 

“No hello for me?” She jerked, found Tom’s smirk across the table, his whole body eased into a perfect lounge, one leg thrown over his knee. There was a cigarette held between his fingers, but when wasn’t there? Eleanor wrinkled her nose at the smell, though she experienced none of the nausea from her younger years. Thank God. Smiling despite herself, she hid it with a well-timed scoff, rolling her eyes skyward. If only to escape the sight of him, just for a moment. 

“Well,” she drawled, faux considering, “you sort of fade into the background when the _real_ man of the house is around.” Tom took a drag of his cigarette. 

“You hear that, Charlie? Not even two years old, and you’ve already overthrown me.” 

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. You can’t trump adorable.” 

Now, they were both exchanging smirks. 

Meanwhile, Charlie peered down at her sketchbook, having maneuvered himself to face the table. He traced the leatherbound cover peeking out at the bottom with curious, slobber-wet fingers and made a small noise, insistent, in the back of his throat, leaning forward for a closer look. Eleanor felt a spark of delight in her chest. “Wanna see?” she asked, mumbling it into curls at the top of his head. He merely leaned in closer still. 

One hand reaching out to grab it by the base of its spine, she pulled the sketchbook up to Charlie’s line of sight. There were some nude studies in there, as well as some other, grimmer sketches that weren’t meant for a child’s eyes. This way she could turn to the right places. “Here, I’ll show you, sweetheart,” she began and was about to reach around with her other hand to flip to a specific page. 

Tom’s hand descended out of nowhere. 

Eleanor, if not for the weighty baby in her lap holding her hostage, would’ve leapt a foot in the air. “Hey! Keep your hands off,” she hissed, hackles rising, but the sketchbook was already snatched out of her grip, now held up close to his face. His eyes were squinted in concentration. Briefly, distractedly, she wondered if he needed glasses. “That’s not yours.” 

“This is me house. You’ll find everything in it is mine.” _Oh, fuck you._

Both she and Charlie looked up at Tom with what may have been identical pouts. He kept his eyes trained on the pages in front of him. 

With a wave of dread, she recalled some of her more recent sketches, the ones she didn’t like to linger on very long for fear of what they meant. Two, maybe three pages of a very familiar set of hands, tanned with long, lean fingers and a gold wedding band still on the left ring finger. Holding a cigarette. Wrapped around a whiskey glass. Brushing the vague outline of a child’s cheek. A baby’s hand, all stubby fingers, wrapped around the pointer finger of said hand. On and on and on. Her heart began to pound. _Fuck me._

There was a moment, as he leafed through her sketches, licking at the pad of his thumb intermittently when the pages stuck, where he went very, very still, hesitating with the obvious narrowing of his eyes, and Eleanor thought— _that's enough, thank you_. And she reached out with blind determination to rip her property out of his ridiculously beautiful hands. 

Her fingers closed around her sketchbook, moments from tugging it out of his grasp, but then there was his hand looped around the taper of her wrist, reeling the book and herself back in. It all happened very fast. His thumb brushed a cigarette burn. Eleanor flinched back. Tom’s eyes flickered up to her face, a minute glimmer of shock. Seemingly more at the reflexive jerk of her arm in his than the scar itself. 

Charlie paid neither of them any mind, having reached up to play with one of the curls brushing her shoulders. He’d pull, let go, watch it spring back with a giggle. Then start the cycle all over again. Eleanor’s forearm kept his back from meeting the rim of the table. 

Tom pulled his thumb back, revealing the white scar tissue underneath, and he tracked that scar at her wrist, just below the meat of her thumb, eyes trailing up, up, up, until he caught sight of every single one of them. Eleanor watched him do it, and with a willpower granted only through autopilot, forced her tense muscles to relax, her arm to go limp and pliant in his hold. 

She wanted to press herself closer into his touch. She wanted to break his fucking nose. 

After a moment, his eyes locked on hers, Tom stroked his thumb over the same scar it’d found, and Eleanor felt a shiver build at the base of her spine. In the same moment, he stubbed out the remnants of his cigarette against the metal of the table. He’d still had over half left. Unbidden, Eleanor laughed. 

It was like she could breathe again. “Little girls are cruel,” she explained, flippant. 

_You’re sweet,_ she didn’t say, but maybe the curve of her smile said it all. 

With an absentminded nod, Tom turned her forearm this way and that, tilting her wrist between his thumb and the cradle of his fingers to study the circular scars that retreated from her wrist-bone all the way up to the crook of her elbow. He made the same face he did when she brought up his wife before. Blank. Swept clean. “Ever get back at them?” he asked, inflection smoother than satin or silk. Curious, in that dull, passive way. Too calm. 

Eleanor snorted so loud it rocked her seat back. “What,” she teased, all slick Brooklyn charm, “you asking if I cut them up like you would’ve?” She smiled at the bafflement creasing his face, that now-classic _you’re speaking to me in a way you shouldn’t_ look, and shook her head. “God, no, of course not. They were just kids. Just fucked-up kids.” She sent an apologetic look down at Charlie’s head for the swear. Tom stared. 

He stared until Eleanor began fidgeting, fingers twitching against where they brushed the skin of his forearm. The grip of his fingers flexed against her wrist. “You’re too soft for your own good,” he told her, sounding a bit rough at the edges—more so than cigarette smoke could explain away. His words came out like a warning. Like he really meant it. 

Eleanor laughed outright, somehow not offended in the slightest. That was new. "Oh, am I? And what about you, Mr. Shelby? You know,” she leaned in as close as she could over the table with a baby in her lap, whispered it like a filthy secret, “I've heard some interesting things about you." 

Tom arched his brow back in clear challenge. Leaned forward as well, until he towered over her again and she had no choice but to look up at him through her lashes. 

“You have, huh?” 

“Yeah, actually, I have.” 

“Why don’t you share, then, Ms. Blum. I don’t like being left waiting.” 

Eleanor tilted up her chin, steeled herself with a thorn-sharp smile. Charlie, curled up in her lap, made a fussy sound they both only half-heard. “You pretend you’re so bad—and, y’ know, you probably are. But I’ve asked around about you, Mr. Shelby. You’re a contradictory man.” He looked at her in complete silence, lips pursed. She forged on. “The big bad gangster who employs jobless veterans to fix up the bars bashed in by coppers. Who pays stipends to widows and employs the men with shellshock that no one’ll hire. Who visits his orphanage personally. The stone-cold killer who, what? Funds education programs here in Small Heath—and the only reason anybody even knows about it is ‘cause your secretary saw the checks and tattled on you.” 

All gentle mockery, “Care to explain yourself, killer?” 

Tom averted his eyes, the slip-up brief. Almost invisible. Almost. “I’m a businessman. It’s politics,” was all he said, a bob to his throat, and Eleanor could only smile. 

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m not the only soft one here.” She cocked her head at him. Gentled her tone. “It’s not weak—softness. It takes balls to expose your throat.” 

“Maybe I can’t afford it, then,” Tom countered, and Eleanor rolled her eyes at him. 

“You’re rich. You can afford almost everything.” 

“Almost?” he asked, his smile a taunt and his baby blues dancing at her, but just then, Charlie let out a sound that made it very, very clear that it was time for dinner, and the conversation died before she could answer. Later, she’d realize his fingers had stayed wrapped around her wrist the whole time. 

She told herself she didn’t feel the phantom press of them against her skin. 

Eleanor was a shit liar, as usual. 

They continued on in this manner for a while, this strange limbo of the both of them pretending they were only “running into each other". The three of them—because it was never Eleanor and Tom alone, Charlie their apparent buffer—would only ever see each other in the garden, Tom somehow knowing whenever she was on break. They’d drink tea on one of the stupidly small patio tables or bicker over the plans for the new garden, Tom picking a fight just for the sake of it. Eleanor learned that Charlie’s birthday was in March, that his favorite toy was a stuffed rabbit with the gibberish name of “Eppa”; she learned that Tom’s secretary’s name was Lizzie and that he had a childhood horse named Midnight. She learned he had three brothers, Arthur, John, and Finn, with the former two being people he never spoke about, even briefly. She didn’t ask why. 

For the sake of not strangling him, she never asked why she’d been hired, either. 

Every once in a while, it'd be just Charlie—Tom out on business or busy in his office. Frances would bring the baby out at the slowest part of the day to watch while Eleanor worked, playing in the grass with his toys as Frances took the downtime to read the paper. Once, on one of these days, Tom came home early to find Eleanor dozing in a patch of sun during her break, laid out on a picnic blanket with Charlie slumbering in the crook of her arm. Even now, she couldn’t get the look on his face out of her head, his eyes the first thing she saw when she shook herself back into awareness. 

In truth, she must’ve seen _at least_ one—if not both—of them every few days, to the point that it was almost routine, keeping a lookout for the pair. It was... nice, though she’d never admit it aloud. These days, she’d arrive back at Flora’s still smiling to herself, unable to shove it down, and Cora would eye her in concern, in warning, even as she asked about her day. And it went on like this, with little variation, for almost a month. 

And then, of course, the Friday of Week Seven came along. 

Let it be noted: there’s something vaguely ominous about being elbow-deep in the earth when you hear the first _crack_ of thunder, static electricity in the air making all the hair on your arms stand at once. The shock of it traveled through the ground. 

Eleanor, covered head-to-toe in dirt, felt that first rumble vibrate her very bones, and startling back into awareness, was plucked out of her daydreams just in time for the sky to begin pouring. A great torrent of rain that pounded against her skin quick and heavy as thousands of tiny fists. For a breath, Eleanor stood there, wide-eyed with her knees in the mud, before she threw back her head and _laughed_. Her hair stuck to her face; the rain got in her mouth—but she laughed. In the seconds since the storm had begun, her cardigan was already soaked through, a dead-weight. The sketchbook in her pocket, though partially protected by its leather binding, must’ve at least been damp. She shook her head, and a curtain of drenched curls slapped against her cheek. 

Just then, thunder rumbled, an ominous promise, as arks of lightning struck against the rapidly greying sky. 

Eleanor jumped at the sound. “Holy hell,” she huffed, traced the spidering cracks of light in the distance with her eyes. The sky grumbled at her. “Alright, alright, I hear you.” She was scrambling off the ground, mud caking her skirt and her shoes squelching in the wet, when Frances burst out the back entrance, beckoning her in with the frantic wave of her bony fingers. 

“Miss!” she shouted over the wind, “come in before you catch your death!” 

Eleanor laughed again despite herself but was already nodding her head, bounding forward, slipping and sliding on the wet earth. Her ankles were flecked with dirt and blades of grass by the time she stumbled through the door into the protection of the house. 

She stayed, shivering, on the doormat. Frances, with a look of absolute fret, began pushing back the curls splayed across her cheeks in wet trails. Eleanor smiled at the effort. “Poor thing, why didn’t you come in sooner?" 

Eleanor shrugged. “I was already soaked through. I figured I’d wait under the terrace—storms like these never really last long.” Frances clucked her tongue, shaking her head in clear disapproval; Eleanor bit at her lip to keep her smile from growing larger. She looked just like Ms. Catherine did in her youth—and honestly, as she still did in Eleanor’s adulthood—worrying over a sunburn she’d never get. 

“I’ll go get you some towels,” Frances told her, a dismayed look on her face as she eyed her dripping form. “Though, I don’t know if we can salvage your clothes.” 

Eleanor made herself as small as possible on the square of cloth she stood on, bunching up her shoulders tight; earnestly, she told the housekeeper, “I’ll try not to make a mess.” 

Frances stared. “I’m more worried about you getting sick, miss,” she said, blunt, and for a moment, it looked like she wanted to pat Eleanor’s sodden shoulder. Instead, she gave her a small smile. “I’ll be right back, alright?” 

Tom found her like this, holding herself stiff to avoid flicking rainwater on the wood floors, which gleamed with a fresh scrubbing. He strolled her way, casual as can be like he hadn’t made a beeline straight for her. Like he hadn’t known she’d be stuck here, looking for all the world like a half-drowned cat. Frances was a snitch, apparently. A hint of laughter touched his eyes. 

“Eleanor,” he greeted. 

“Tom.” 

“You look... wet.” 

“Well, it’s storming out.” 

His lips twitched. “I noticed.” 

Rain beat against the windows, a pattering sound that bounced throughout the space. Eleanor shuffled her feet, chewing the inside of her cheek and fighting back a pout. The sopping wet soles of her boots squished under her toes, and she made a disgusted face without meaning to, nose crinkling without her consent. Unable to stand it, she bent down to start undoing her laces. “Are you just here to make fun of me?” she scolded, keeping her eyes on her shoes. “Because I’m pretty tough, mister. You won’t get to me.” She pried off one boot, challenging her poor balance in the process, and began picking at the double knot of the other. Wobbling, close to falling over, she heard a quiet huff of laughter before Tom’s hand descended onto her shoulder, gripping on just enough to steady. Her breath caught. He was so, so warm. 

Eleanor looked at him through the hair plastered to her face. “Thanks,” she told him, begrudging. With a tilt to his head, eyes narrowed in thought she couldn’t read, he swiped the errant curls back behind her ear. 

Frances’ footsteps clacked against the floorboards, a lighter step following close behind. 

Tom pulled back his hands. 

Eleanor ripped off her other boot in a flurry of movement, heart in her throat. 

She straightened up into a standing position just as Frances arrived a few paces from the two of them, a maid clutching a stack of towels with both arms. The housekeeper glanced between them with an odd smile on her face, though as soon as she got a closer look at Eleanor, it dropped into a frown. She rushed forward, the maid at her heels. “Oh, look, you’re shivering! Margaret—hand me a towel!” 

Eleanor blinked. Pointed out to her, she realized her periodic shakes had transformed into full-blown trembling; she hadn’t even noticed the way her teeth chattered. Frances draped a towel over the quiver of her shoulders and down her arms, rubbing warmth back into her skin with the fabric a buffer between her own hands and the soaked fabric of Eleanor’s blouse. Suddenly aware of just how cold and wet she was, Eleanor had never been more thankful that she’d worn a camisole underneath her pale shirt. 

“Frances,” she said, but the woman kept on scrubbing. “Frances, really, it’s alright. I can dry myself off.” The woman finally stepped back, and Eleanor took up the job of patting herself dry, giving Tom a dirty look at the entertainment splashed clear as day across his face. If anything, that only pleased him more. 

“Frances likes to go above and beyond,” he said, and Eleanor shot him another _look_. 

Frances paid neither of them any mind, the crinkle of her forehead showing she wasn’t appeased, even as Eleanor took another offered towel to run through her curls, scrunching them into dampness. She scowled as Eleanor fought off another shiver that wracked her whole body. “You really should change, Ms. Blum. But I’m afraid I’ve asked all the available staff—none of them have any clothes for you.” 

“No, no, that’s okay,” Eleanor hurried to say, “I can wait until I get home. My ride should be here any minute.” 

Tom butted in this time. “I doubt he’d let you in. You’d ruin his upholstery.” 

Eleanor couldn’t help pouting, now. “Well, if you’d let me borrow a towel, I could—” 

“Erm,” the maid, Margaret, piped up, shrinking when eyes turned her way. “Well, Mrs. Shelby’s clothes are still in storage, I believe, if...” Eleanor zoned out, felt her face go white. Across from her, Tom’s own face bleached of color. His fists clenched. 

_Absolutely not._

“I can just wear Tom’s clothes,” Eleanor blurted and then flushed to the roots of her hair immediately after. All heads swiveled in her direction. “Honestly,” she pushed ahead, keeping her tone light and breezy, “I’ll take any excuse to wear trousers without getting sneered at by the London elite, those upstage bastards.” Frances hid a laugh with a perfectly-timed cough into her sleeve. 

Tom’s expression shifted into something much more amused, so much better than that awful blankness that had eclipsed his face before. He flicked his eyes down her figure, tracing head-to-toe. She shifted in her wet stockings and resisted the urge to hide. “I somehow doubt they’d fit you,” he said, wry. 

Eleanor scrunched her nose. “Then add some suspenders, too.” _Obviously, genius_ , she taunted him with her eyes. 

_Watch it_ , he smiled back. 

And that was how Eleanor ended up in Thomas Shelby’s clothes, in a dress shirt that nearly hung off one shoulder and pants that were comically large, barely staying put around her waist even with suspenders holding them up. They dragged against the floor no matter how many times she rolled up the pantlegs. 

She caught one look in a hallway mirror after she got dressed and laughed so loud Tom startled at her side, whipping his head to the side to eyeball her, probably dubious at the sudden bout of hysteria. He’d been waiting for her at the door as she dressed in a spare room. “I look ridiculous,” she told him, her own clothes bundled in her arms, still giggling. Before he could respond, an unbidden smile tugging at his lips, Frances bustled down the hall. She barely spared Eleanor’s new outfit a glance. 

“Ms. Blum—!” 

Eleanor interrupted, unable to stop herself. “Eleanor is fine, Frances. Please!” 

Frances stopped in front of her, pausing to catch her breath. “Eleanor, then.” She offered Tom a short bow of her head. Tom nodded back. “Mr. Shelby. I just received a call from your employer, Mis—Eleanor. A Ms. Evans? She wanted me to let you know that your driver can’t make it down here. The storm hit Small Heath, y’ see, and flooded all the roads.” Frances shot a flustered look Tom’s way. “I checked, sir, and it seems like we’re in the same shape, as well.” Outside, as if in agreement, thunder boomed. 

_Oh._ “Oh,” Eleanor said, unsure what to say. Or, more importantly, what to do. 

“Well, the solution’s simple,” Tom said, just this side of condescending. Eleanor narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ll just have to stay the night. Frances or one of the girls can make a bed up for you. I’m sure the roads’ll be clear come morning.” 

_Oh, no, no, no._ Eleanor protested, “No, you don’t have to do that.” She chewed at her lip. “I mean. I could walk.” Frances gave a very unladylike snort. 

Tom cocked his head, a clear challenge as always, and stood firm. “Do I not seem like a good host to you, Ms. Blum? What kind of man would I be, now, if I let some young woman—such as yourself—wander off in the cold?” How he made _young woman_ sound so mocking... 

Eleanor scoffed, shook her head with a smile she hid in the palm of her hand. “Oh, you seem like the perfect gentleman, Mr. Shelby.” She peeked up at him through the damp strands of her hair. He smirked down at her. More honestly, she told him, “But I don’t want to cause your cooks any trouble. I’m sure they’ve already prepared dinner. Or your housekeepers. I mean, I’ve already gotten everything wet.” 

It was Tom’s turn to shake his head. He looked... almost kind, when he told her, “Doesn’t matter what you want. I’m telling you: you're staying the night.” 

She couldn’t help it—she laughed, bright and sudden. Shocking herself. “Alright, then. Fine.” Smiling still, she rocked up onto her tippy toes until they were almost eye-to-eye. “But I warn you, this is a one-time thing. Don’t get used to bossing me around.” 

He didn’t even appear offended. “Doubt it’d work on you even if I tried,” he said. Eleanor ducked her head, grinned. 

“You’re a smart man.” 

Frances cleared her throat, and Eleanor stumbled back to settle on the balls of her feet again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frances’ mouth curl up at one end. “I’ll prepare a guestroom for you, then. Oh, and I heard from the cook—dinner should be ready, sir. Charlie is already at the table.” 

“Thank you, Frances,” Tom dismissed, and the woman’s sensible heels clicked back down the hall before the sound faded entirely. 

A short walk later, and down the spiraling staircase with Mrs. Shelby’s set of piercing eyes, Eleanor found herself biting back a laugh at the stretch of portrait hanging at the head of the table—Thomas Shelby, impeccably dressed, as usual, ridiculous hat present and a white mare at his side. Her shoulders shaking with her restraint, it didn’t take long for Tom to step up next to her, a gleam in his eye, his arm nearly brushing hers. 

“You laughing at me, Ms. Blum?” he asked. She shook her head, curls flying, and bit at her lip even harder. “Y’ know, I’m a very sensitive man. I don’t like being made fun of.” 

That notion alone—Tom being a “sensitive” man—sent her into a fit of giggles. She muscled them back down. “It’s... It’s certainly something.” She tilted her head at the oil painting, tried viewing it with an artist’s eye. The brushstrokes were so fine, it looked more like a photograph than a painting, that she could admit. The blending was seamless. But really, it was too pretentious for words. Grasping at straws, she finally spoke, admitting, “I’ve never ridden a horse before.” 

“Oh, yeah?” At Eleanor’s headshake, he opened his mouth, but what he was planning to say was lost in a sudden squeal that echoed throughout the near-empty, spacious room, bouncing off the walls. Charlie, it seemed, had finally noticed their presence. 

The little boy, face smeared with what looked like mashed carrots, lit up at the sight of her. Eleanor wanted to cry at the happiness shining from him—Lord, she was getting soft. “El!” 

“Charlie!” she exclaimed, equally enthused. The woman currently coaxing food into his mouth with limited success started at her volume, tossing an incredulous look Tom’s way that he ignored. Charlie wiggled in his high chair, banging his baby fists against the lip and nearly knocking his plate clear off. “Sorry,” she apologized to the staff woman, who had to leap forward to keep his food from splattering against the hardwood. 

Tom waved the woman off after that, and for a while, all was well—the chef served roasted chicken with fingerling potatoes and honeyed carrots, buttered rolls that melted in her mouth. She tasted fresh thyme and rosemary and a little too much garlic. It was perfect. 

At one point, she got sick of staring at Tom’s untouched plate and ripped Charlie’s fork from his father’s hand, wielding it in his direction. “I’ve got this,” she said, waggling the fork. “You eat. If men as big and powerful as you even need to do that anymore.” 

“And how, exactly, would I sustain myself, then?” 

“Your underpaid workers’ sweat and tears? Don’t ask me.” And then she tried feeding Charlie a bite of potato, the skin peeled off. Tom picked at his food the same way his son did, nose wrinkled. A look of disinterest on his face. 

“C’mon, Charlie, have a bite,” Tom cajoled, the hypocrite. 

Charlie huffed, kept squirming away from whatever food they offered him. “No!” He gave her his very best puppy eyes. They were very, very convincing, big and blue. “El? Play?” Tom huffed in the same manner as his son; she hid a smile with the duck of her head. 

Eleanor tried a stab of her own. “If you eat your dinner,” she bargained, holding up some finely shredded chicken to his lips, “maybe we can play after, okay? I’ll read you a bedtime story.” Here, she slid a hopeful look Tom’s way, all big eyes. “If it’s alright with your dad.” 

Tom arched a brow at his son. Charlie peered up at him, pouting. “What do you say, Charlie? D’ you accept her proposal, son?” 

Charlie, who definitely couldn’t understand much beyond “eat” and “play” and “dad,” opened his mouth for a bite. Eleanor gave Tom her most smug smile, the one with too much teeth. He rolled his eyes at her. 

Which was how she ended up, some twenty-odd minutes later, in front of a towering bookcase which stretched clear from wall-to-ceiling. Nestled between all the dusty tombs with their embossed covers, politics to economics to— _yuck—_ Freud, was a series of children’s books, much thinner with brightly covered spines. Eleanor ran a finger across them, a now drowsy Charlie at her hip, and from where he sat, sprawled at his desk, Tom watched her pick out the perfect bedtime story. He kept peering up at her while looking through a stack of papers. 

On his face were thin-rimmed glasses, small and circular, and the silliest thing she’d ever seen. Even more so than the hat. 

Her lips wobbled with the force it took to withhold the laughter bubbling up her throat. 

“Something to say, Eleanor?” he asked, eyes never leaving his paperwork. He flicked to another page. 

“Nothing,” she stammered, voice wavering. “You just look _so_ handsome in those... those...” She snorted, breaking herself off. 

Deadpan, he replied, “Right.” Brushing the hair out of his eyes, he continued despite the sudden burst of her laughter filling the room, “Well, I needed them after a priest bashed my head in, so—glad to know it was for a good cause, eh?” 

Sputtering, Eleanor only gaped at him for a moment, pausing mid-way through pulling a book from the shelf. Finally, she managed: “Was he Catholic?” 

There was a stretch where they both just stared at one another. 

Then, Tom threw back his head and _laughed_. It sounded punched out. Like he couldn’t stop it if he tried. Eleanor watched him, breathless. Charlie giggled at the happy sound. “You know what?” he said, pointing at her with a finger. “That he was.” 

She grabbed _The Velveteen Rabbit_ from the shelves. She remembered Eppa probably upstairs in Charlie’s crib. “I’m sure a rabbi would never treat you that way,” she promised, lips twitching. He shook his head at her, and with a grin still lingering at his lips, he gave her the directions to Charlie’s room. Feeling light as air, the sound of his laugh ringing in her ears—bright, sudden, _shocked_ —she went. 

Charlie, stuffed with chicken and bread, only babbled a little as she paced him around the room, the curve of his cheek pressed against the hollow where her neck met her shoulder. His arm was tossed over her opposite shoulder, rubbing a single red curl between his fingers. “El, read?” he mumbled, peeking out with one eye to study the book in her free hand. 

“Uh-huh, sweetheart, like I promised,” she said, and while the pages were difficult to flip one-handed, she managed well enough. “There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning, he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be...” And on she went, Charlie complacent and sleepy in her hold, as she tried keeping her voice steady and soft, a low murmur as gentle as a lullaby. 

It was mid-way through the book, whispering now, “...while the Boy was asleep, dreaming of the seaside, the little Rabbit lay among the old picture-books in the corner behind the fowl-house, and he felt very lonely...” that he finally went to sleep, puffs of breath pressed against her shoulder. 

She was tucking him under the covers of his crib, a stuffed bear already nestled inside and his Eppa clutched under his armpit, when she felt Tom’s presence at the door; she whirled around to face him on a light foot, not wanting to send the floorboards creaking. Eleanor tip-toed to his side, and once she’d stepped out into the hall, flicking out the larger, brighter lamp at the doorway, he shut the door behind her with barely a click. 

“Showing me my room?” she asked, mouthing more than really speaking. With a small nod towards down the hall, he settled a hand against the small of her back, and that touch alone sent pinpricks of sensation down her spine all the way to her toes. She tried to be irritated about it. 

He led her to a room not far from Charlie’s, the door already open. There was another room one door to the left and across the hall from hers, cracked enough to see a light shining through. Eleanor questioned if it was his, but she shook away that wonder before it could take hold. She twisted her head to look back at him; the warmth of his palm only separated from her skin by the thin fabric of his shirt. Swallowing around the nameless emotion in her throat, she took a steadying breath. 

“Goodnight, Tom. Thanks for letting me stay,” she told him, crooking a genuine smile. 

Tom inclined his head in a nod. His hand lingered, then pulled back entirely. Eleanor ached. “Goodnight, Eleanor.” And before she could be tempted into seeing where he went, she slipped into her room. 

_You’re better off not knowing, Eleanor. Leave it._

Later, hours into the night, Eleanor awoke snuggled beneath the blankets, warm in nothing but his dress shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, and her bloomers; her bare legs tangled in silk sheets. The pillow beneath her nose smelled faintly of lavender oil. Disoriented, she stared blearily into the blackness of the guestroom. What the fuck had woken her? She hadn’t dreamed. Throwing a hand over her eyes, Eleanor shook it off; she slipped back into a light doze again. 

On the cusp of sleep, she heard it: a shout and then a loud, awful _bang_. 

The shattering of glass. 

Abruptly, terribly awake, Eleanor jolted up in bed. _Tom._


	5. White Poppies (Sleep—My Bane, My Antidote)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of Eleanor's long journey of denial.

Eleanor found her wrist gripped between the manacle of his fingers; her bones ground together; her skin pinched beneath his nails. The pain of it ricocheted up her arm like a crackle of lightning zinging against her nerve endings. But she didn’t cry out, only said, soft as the free hand that cupped his cheek, “Tom. Hey, _Tommy_ , sweetheart, it’s okay. Wake up.” 

But she was getting ahead of herself. 

At the sound of shattering glass, her legs were thrown over the bed before she could think, tripping on the sheets tangled around her ankles in ropes of fine fabric. Silk could be a dangerous thing. Eleanor heard her own breath, ragged and gasping in her ears, too loud and too fast. She didn’t think—she ran. 

Outside, thunder sounded off, a great clap as violent as any gunshot. 

The floorboards creaked beneath her feet, and she had to keep her hand braced against the hallway wall—too dark to see, she felt her way to where she thought Tom’s door might be, stumbling blind. For a few moments, she fumbled for the doorknob, cursing herself for her shaky hands. _Please be unlocked, please be..._ The knob yielded under her fingers, and with a twist, she tossed open the door. 

There was enough moonlight from the gap in the curtains, from the streaks of heat lightning white against the black sky, that she could find her way to his bedside with ease. A glass was broken into two, no, _three_ jagged shards next to his side of the bed, and her toe nudged a puddle of water as she crept close. But Eleanor didn’t notice any of that. 

Tangled in his sheets and his head lolled in her direction, Tom’s eyes flickered beneath his lids, all fevered flutter, and while no sound escaped his lips, he mouthed something she couldn’t read. Not in the dark. His hair clung to his forehead, and she rocked forward on her toes, hovering over his shivering form and wanting so, so badly to touch his face, to smooth back his hair. “Tom, hey,” Eleanor said, her hand outstretched but too hesitant to touch, “wake up. You’re just dreaming.” 

It was then that he made a soft, pained noise in the back of his throat, almost a whine, and _fuck_ , she was an idiot for it, but not even God could’ve stopped her from reaching out and shaking his shoulder. It was too gut-wrenching, too horrible—hearing that sound ripped from his throat. Her own breathing picked up, rapid and shallow. Underneath her palm, his skin was slick with sweat; his brows furrowed; his face twitched. But he didn’t wake. Eleanor shook him again, rougher now. “Tom,” she was pleading now, her fingers clenched around his shoulder, and— 

And then, there were fingers circling her wrist in a grip of steel, tugging her forward until her thighs bumped against the mattress; her knee bashed into the bedframe. Eleanor let out an _oomph,_ breath leaving her lungs in a gust. 

“Fuck,” she cursed, face-to-face with Thomas Shelby’s frightened, still-sleeping expression. He was panting, now, his chest heaving. Gasping great gulps of air, his tight hold on her wrist shivered with adrenaline. It twinged; his nails bit into her skin. Tom had dragged her so close that her forearm brushed against his bare chest. 

_I’ve mucked this up_ , she thought to herself, half-hysterical. The twisting of his face, like he was in pain, made her place a hand against his cheek. It took a bit of maneuvering, but sure enough, she was able to wiggle around in his hold to cup his face in her palm, rubbing circles against the jut of his cheekbone. 

“Tom,” she raised her voice and watched his brows dip, his lashes flutter. His breath came out raspy; his fingers held on with their bruising grip. Eleanor’s eyes watered. “Hey, _Tommy_ , sweetheart, it’s okay. Wake up.” 

His eyes snapped open. 

He didn’t let her go. Not at first. If anything, his fingers tightened; the bones of her wrist groaned in protest. There was no recognition; his eyes darted around her face, then behind her shoulder. Looking for an exit. Her arm was going numb. Fighting a wince, she brushed her thumb across his cheekbone again. “Hey, you,” she said, trying to keep it light. 

He flinched from her touch, but before she could pull her hand away, startled by the violence of his reaction, something in him seemed to settle. Awareness bled back into his eyes. His fingers flexed against her skin, then ripped away from her hand. Like he’d been burned. 

They stared. 

Their faces were close enough that Eleanor felt the heat of embarrassment prickle at the back of her neck. She couldn’t make herself take her hand back, not now that he was searching her face with such a lost look present on his. 

Tom made a movement to sit up, leaning forward, and broke whatever spell had taken ahold of her. She yanked away from him, her fingertips grazing his jaw as she pulled back, and in the terrible silence, she could hear the tremble of their breathing syncing. Once he was propped against the headboard, Tom reached over to his bedside table and grabbed his cigarette case. The predictability of it almost made her laugh. 

Soon, he had a lit cigarette between his lips, his head tilted back against the dark slab of his headboard; Eleanor tracked the process, let the routine lull her into some semblance of calm. She almost wanted one for herself. Just to avoid having to speak. By god, but she didn’t know what to say, how to even begin; she watched the cigarette shake between his fingers and shifted on her feet like some guilty child caught out of bed after curfew. 

Tom ended up solving that problem for her. 

“That was fucking stupid of you,” he told her, all monotone. His voice was scraped raw. “What if I’d really hurt you, huh?” And Eleanor shrank from the blue of his eyes peering up at her, even as she huffed out a strained laugh. Eleanor glanced down at her wrist, now free of his grasp; his nails had left marks in her skin, red and raised. One of the crescent marks—from his thumb, she thought—went deeper than the rest, beyond a scratch or a future bruise. It bled, sluggish, down the inside of her wrist. She tucked it away, keeping it out of Tom’s sight. It was fine. 

“Pretty fucking stupid,” she agreed. “But I don’t care.” Tom shot her a _look_ , one that said— _oh, as long as_ you _don’t_ _fucking_ _care, it’s fine, is it?_ He appeared outright incredulous over the casual dismissal. 

She shrugged—then abruptly, remembering the broken glass on the ground, knelt to pick up the large fragments, gathering them in the palm of her hand. Tom watched, eyes still glazed but becoming clearer and clearer. He took another drag of his cigarette as she set the shards on the bedside table. Outside, the sky had lightened to a grey; light peeked cautious rays through the curtains—she hadn’t realized, in her haste, that morning was so close. The storm had gone. 

Pursing her lips, she looked at Tom’s slumped form, his haunted, hollow eyes, and the exhausted creases collecting at the corners of them. His shoulders were stiff. _Well, that’s it, then._ Suddenly _very_ aware of her legs, bare from her lower thigh down, she averted eyes and huffed out a breath. Squared her shoulders. “Alright, then,” she said mostly to herself, and in one swift movement, she threw her leg over the bed and across his lap. Immediately, his hands shot out to wrap around her hips, steadying her as she wobbled. Eleanor scowled at him. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded. His pupils were blown. 

Her legs now splayed wide around the stretch of his thighs, she plucked at his hands with her fingers until they dropped limp at her sides, avoiding the still smoldering eye of his cigarette in his right hand. His touch raised goosebumps against her skin, and she fought a squirm. Her ears burned. She hadn’t had time to think about it before—but now, she was well-aware of his naked torso, his legs only clad in boxer shorts that bunched under her weight. 

His hands had scrunched up the borrowed fabric of her shit, rucked it up until the lacy edges of her bloomers peeped out from the hem. She tugged the shirt back down. 

“Hold on. Don’t get any ideas,” Eleanor warned, pointing a finger in his face, and soon enough, she was off his lap, crawling over his legs to settle by his side. “I’m just trying to sit next to you.” 

“And you couldn’t have walked around the bed?” Tom asked. Eleanor pretended to study his sheets. She hefted a shoulder. He snorted, shook his head in exasperation. “And why, exactly, are you sitting next to me, Eleanor?” 

Eleanor, as she went about settling at his side, gawped at him. “I’m not just going to leave you after a nightmare,” she sputtered, genuinely offended. Tentative, she pressed her shoulder to his; he didn’t inch away from her touch. She leaned against him more firmly. “I’m not heartless.” Tom only looked at her, squinting. Eleanor hesitated, then pulled her lips into the semblance of a smirk. “Unless you want to get rid of me?” 

Surveying her until she began to fidget, Tom let out a sigh. He shook his head. “No, Eleanor,” he said, sounding weary with his eyes to the ceiling, “against my better judgment, I don’t want to get rid of you.” 

Eleanor wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, but she was too busy trying to shove her bare legs under the covers to figure it out. Her toes were freezing. Pushing her luck, she pressed her thigh along his. “Do you...?” she began but cut herself off, chewing on her lip and digging her toes into the sheets pooling at the bottom of the bed. She felt his eyes on the side of her head. He was more patient than she thought he’d be. Finally, she settled on, “Nightmares are shit.” 

Tom laughed. It was an awful sound. He turned his head more fully towards her, and his lips grazed the top of her head. Eleanor wanted to sway into it, wanted to shut her tired eyes. “That they are,” he said, “that they are.” 

They sat there in the silence, a long line of contact between them. Eleanor’s lids began dropping; she felt sleep creeping back into her arms and legs, fogging her mind. Nodding off, she straightened up only when he cleared his throat, his voice rasping and low. 

“It’s always the fucking mud,” he said, and Eleanor went very still. “And I wait in the dark for the blood and the shit. And the shovels—I wait for those damn shovels against the wall. But nowadays, they never fucking come.” His head was hung low, his chin against his chest. “I’m waiting in the daytime, now.” 

Eleanor swallowed hard. “Yeah,” she said, her mouth dry. In her mind, she recalled it so clearly: the girls’ sneering faces, the slip and slide of the mud making it impossible to fight back, the smell of petrichor, musky and clean. And later, caked in it, tracking it on the carpet no matter how hard she tried. The promise of punishment, the breathless waiting game. It wasn’t the same, but... “Yeah. It’s always the fucking mud, isn’t it?” It lingered underneath her fingernails for days after. 

Sometimes, she still felt it lodged there. 

Eleanor reached out, brushed her hand against the one lying limp at his side. She didn’t try to hold it, didn’t try and lace their fingers—just offered another point of pressure. He didn’t tug his hand away. It felt like a win. 

They sat there, and at one point, no matter how many times she blinked herself back into awareness or pinched her own thigh, she must’ve nodded off. 

The first time she woke, she found her face buried into his shoulder, her lips against the curve of his neck. Her fingers were intertwined with his, though how they got that way she wasn’t sure. It was Tom’s hand on her upper arm that had woke her, his grip gentle. Eleanor mumbled some useless protest into his skin, tucking her face even more into the resting place between his neck and shoulder. She heard his sigh. 

“C’mon, Eleanor,” he spoke into her hair, “let’s just get you laid down now, alright?” 

That’s the last thing she remembered. 

She woke up the second time disoriented and confused, a blanket tugged up to her chin. Her dreams had been strange, formless things, flashes of color and whispers of sound, the phantom sensation of fingers running through her curls, brushing it out of her eyes. 

She woke up to her cheek squashed into the meat of Thomas Shelby’s thigh. 

There was a moment, just a moment, where her brain rattled the cage of her skull, screaming and screeching, running in circles, _abort-abort-abort_ —the panic near blinding in its intensity. But then the warmth of the blankets leeched into her skin and the smell of cigarette smoke and something heavier, something musky and warm, filled her senses, and Eleanor found herself nuzzling closer into the warm body she used as a pillow. The light of day pushed against her eyelids, but she just squeezed them shut even tighter. If she laid here long enough, maybe she could slip back into... 

There was a low chuckle from somewhere above her head. “Are we still pretending to be asleep?” Tom asked. His voice was raspier than usual. Eleanor groaned, trying to burrow even further into the covers. It was now that she realized she had one leg slung over both of his, touching the bare skin of his calves. 

“You’re ruining it,” she whined against his thigh, keeping her face pressed against the fabric there. 

She could hear his smile. “Ruining what?” 

“My morning bliss,” she complained, flinging up a hand to gesture wildly in his direction. Her fingers grazed against something hard and fibrous—a book cover, maybe? Whatever it was, Tom pulled it away from her reach. “You’re ruining my morning bliss with your... your _you!_ ” She huffed. 

Tom laughed. Unable to help herself, she turned her head and glanced up at him, then, needing to catch the smile that lit up his face; he was already peering down at her. As she suspected, there was a book held in one of his hands. “Forgive me,” he told her, when the mirth faded into just a crinkle at the corner of his eyes, “I will try and be less... myself.” The thin skin beneath his eyes was bruised. 

At the sight of the stretch of purples and blues, Eleanor remembered why she was here in his bed in the first place. The happy haze of the morning flickered. She looked away from him, then, resting her cheek back on his thigh. “You sleep at all?” 

A far less happy laugh. “Do I not look well-rested to you?” _So, not at all, then._ In her brief look, it appeared like he had gotten almost three-fourths of the way through his book. _Shit._

Guilt gnawed at her. “Fuck,” she sighed, “I went and fell asleep on you.” Trying not to pout, Eleanor stretched until her nose nudged the cut of a hipbone; her spine cracked and popped. She frowned against his skin. “’M sorry.” 

Eleanor felt his eyes on her. “Yeah, and why would you be sorry, hm? Don’t worry, now,” he teased, “my maids know how to look the other way with a man like me around.” 

Fuck, but Eleanor didn’t even want to _think_ about what the maids might’ve thought of her—if any of them knew where she was right now, snuggled into Thomas Shelby’s side. She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant,” she told him, flicking her eyes up to meet his. At his uncomprehending face, she sighed, finally scooting away from the warmth of his body to sit up. She pressed her back against his headboard and tried blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her hair was in a disarray, blocking her vision, and she looked at Tom through the wisps of curls caught in her lashes. 

“I’m sorry I left you alone last night,” Eleanor said, and she watched a strange expression flit across his face, something inscrutable. She leaned forward for a better look. “I meant to stay up with you.” 

Tom’s eyes were at half-mast when he looked at her. With his head cocked to one side, there was a lopsided quirk to his lips. He appeared almost baffled. Tom stared at her long enough she felt her stomach begin to flutter, and then he shook his head. And kept shaking it, a grin curling at his mouth, even as he reached forward to pull the hair from her eyes, the gesture practiced and smooth, his fingers gentle as he tucked stray curls behind her ear. 

Her breath caught. Her skin buzzed. 

This was getting ridiculous—the way her body reacted to him. 

His grin was boyish, bright, maybe even fond. “Like I’ve said, you’re too soft,” he reminded her, and she was too breathless to muster up any offense. “Your hands are going to be full—crawling into the beds of every veteran in Birmingham, rocking them to sleep. You’ll never get any fucking rest.” 

_This bastard._ Eleanor threw back her head and laughed. With sleepiness still clinging onto her tight, the sound came out giggly and high, laden with a sort of girlishness that would’ve embarrassed her if she were awake enough. “You’re _ridiculous_ ,” she said, smiling with leftover laughter. 

Before she knew it, she’d leaned in, pressed her smile against his shoulder in a kiss. 

This is the exact moment she woke the fuck up. 

Her lips on Tom’s skin and her mind roaring awake, kicking and screaming for the second time that day. _What’re you doing—just what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Eleanor, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the—!_

When Eleanor moved back, Tom leaned in closer, bending down to get on her level. Their noses almost brushed. She swallowed hard. Winced away from his breath ghosting against her cheek. “Uh,” she said, articulate as always. Tom raised an eyebrow. 

“I—I think I need to go get dressed,” she stumbled out, pulling back the rest of the way, and she watched Tom settle back into his old position in reply, propped up against the headboard. Now, he had his book clenched in both hands. Eleanor could feel the phantom-touch of those fingers grazing the skin of her cheek and the shell of her ear as he tucked back her hair, and she fought a shiver. 

She tumbled out of bed—and the right way, this time, throwing back the covers and crawling out from the side closest to her. Again, that same wave of realization hit her from before: that she was practically half-naked in _his_ shirt of all things. But there was nothing she could do about it now. 

She was almost to the door when Tom piped up, “Ah, so, you _do_ know how to get in and out of bed the right way. I wasn’t sure, earlier.” 

Eleanor flipped him off without even turning around. “You’re the worst,” she hissed at him, throwing open his door with unnecessary force; it rattled on its hinges. His chuckle followed her out of the room. 

Back in the guest bedroom, she took a moment to flop sideways into the bed, the covers still thrown open, and muffle a scream into a pillowcase. She knotted her hands in her hair, curling into a ball on top of the rumpled sheets. _“Fuck!”_ By God, but she didn’t know what came over her, what compelled her to kiss him like that, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her lips. And the way she’d thrown herself all over him last night! Slept on his thigh, flung her legs over his. It was all fucking hitting her now. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so... safe in someone’s arms. 

Not since Lou, at least. 

_(Eleanor woke up to kisses being pressed to her jaw, her throat, and the huff of laughter warm against her skin. “You’re going to be late, baby,” Lou said, her voice smooth like honey, and Eleanor batted her away with the flick of her wrist, snuggling back into the blankets with a groan. She tucked her face into coarse curls—Lou’s hair smelled masculine, sweet, like tobacco and vanilla, and she sank into the familiarity of it. Lou's laugh sounded off again, all light and loudness; her kiss against her pulse-point lingered this time, her breath hot._

_Eleanor shook off the shivers that danced up her spine. “’N whose fault is that, Lou? Whose fault is that?” she slurred into the other woman’s hair, short and bristled against her face. Her whole body_ _ache_ _d; there was a dull pain coming from where Lou sucked a bruise into her inner thigh last night, tender, still-sensitive. Her muscles felt like liquid._

_“You know you love me,” Lou said, and she did; she did. “You can’t complain. Now get your skinny_ _arse_ _up before you’re late for your 10 o’clock lecture.”_

_Eleanor just shook her head, twining their legs together under the sheets until they were properly tangled. “Hold me captive for the day?” she asked, hopeful. She didn’t want to leave this bed. Or her arms._

_And so, she didn’t.)_

Thinking about Lou didn’t sting, not anymore. The initial loneliness of being without her had faded with time like most things did. It’d been two years since they’d even seen each other, since Lou graduated and went off for greener pastures in Wales to her family estate, and more than anything, Eleanor just wondered how she was doing, if she’d found some other girl to torment in the time they’d been apart. The thought of it brought a grin to her face. Maybe _several_ girls. That would be like Lou. 

But that wasn’t the point. That safety, that warmth—it'd been almost the same with Tom. Even after he’d woken up, wild-eyed and near-feral, his fingers pushing bruises into her skin. Even then, she’d only wanted to curl up with him. Hold his hand. 

This was bad. _So, so fucking bad_. This man and his adorable little boy were going to be the end of her if she wasn’t careful. Eleanor flipped onto her back, scrubbed her hands over her eyes. She just wouldn’t think about it. If she didn’t think about it, it wasn’t a problem. It didn’t exist. And even if it did, it’d shrivel and die soon enough, if neglected. 

Her elbow nudged something, and with a whoosh of fabric, she heard something slink to the floor. She sat up. 

On the ground was her blouse in a pool of pale peach; on the bed, still neatly folded and pressed, was her skirt and stockings, as well as her camisole and cardigan. Next to her garments, her sketchbook sat; she’d forgotten she’d left it in the pocket of her cardigan. If she looked at the foot of the bed, she thought she might find her shoes there. Sometime during the morning, a maid or even Frances herself must’ve brought her back her clothing, dried and (after a quick sniff) smelling of lavender, just like her sheets. 

Someone knew she wasn’t in her bed this morning. _Wonderful._ _Just wonderful._

She thought back to Tom’s smirking eyes, the way his mouth curved around the words, “They’re used to looking the other way...” and felt her stomach sour. It was ridiculous, but the idea of being just another girl he fucked in the eyes of the staff made something curdle in her chest. Ridiculous. And God, who even knew who that could get back to? Eleanor Connolly, who fucked women _and_ gangsters, now. _What a scandal._ She learned in polite London society very quickly—walls have eyes and ears twice as sharp. 

Sam would be so smug about it after he was done telling people to mind their own-fucking-business. _I knew you were interested in that Mr. Thomas Shelby_ , he’d say. _You always had a thing for a pair of fine eyes._ Eleanor groaned into her palms. 

After a few more minutes of dread, Eleanor haphazardly changed into her clothes—somehow, whoever had washed them made them far softer than they ever were before, and even the few splotches of oil paint gathered into the knit of her cardigan had been scrubbed away. Rubbing the fabric of Tom’s shirt between her hands, she took a deep, steadying breath. Folded the garment and set it on top of the dresser nearby. 

One made bed and a few yanks through her unruly mop of hair with her fingers later, Eleanor left the sanctuary of the guest bedroom and made her way downstairs. She stumbled through the hallways, turning corner after corner with a sort of blind hope of finding where she needed to go, wherever that may be. Most likely to the nearest phone where she could contact Cora and get the hell out of here. 

Halfway to ripping her hair out, she finally bumped into the stairs, letting out an excited hiss of “ _yesss_ ” when she caught sight of the ornate knob at top of the staircase. 

Now to find a fucking phone. _Tom’s office?_

Worth a shot. 

Tom met her halfway, already at the bottom of the stairs before she even hit the last flight, in a charcoal vest and no tie, looking pressed and perfect while her blouse was half-untucked and her hair stuck up in the back in terrible disarray. A small family of birds could’ve nested in her curls. He tilted his head at the sight of her; she ducked her head, using her eyelashes as a shield. Seeing him after this morning was... odd. Though, the placid expression on his face didn’t reveal any discomfort on his end. _Bastard._

“Surprised you even made it this far,” he remarked. Eleanor crinkled her nose at him. 

“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Shelby.” 

Inwardly, she was pretty shocked, herself. With her luck, she probably should’ve locked herself into some closet, gotten stranded somewhere not even the maids could’ve found. 

She hopped down the two final steps until a mere shove forward would’ve placed them chest-to-chest. Shifting on her feet, she peered up at him. “I was looking for your office, actually—to call my boss.” She peeked over her shoulders, inching up on her tiptoes. 

“No need,” he said, and Eleanor raised an eyebrow at him. He continued, “Ms. Evans called earlier—she said her nephew could pick you up in an hour.” Slow and deliberate, he checked his pocket watch; Eleanor studied the smooth glide of his fingers on the metal. She blinked back into awareness at his next words, “I told her not to bother.” He didn’t elaborate. That seemed to be a habit of his. 

Eleanor leveled him an expectant stare. “And why did you tell her that?” 

“One of my drivers can take you home after breakfast,” he said, eyes roving up and down her figure. Eleanor nearly slapped him in the face. “Frances insists you’re too scrawny.” He smirked. She scowled. “And, of course, it’s my duty to feed you as your host.” 

“Of course,” she deadpanned. 

The walk to the dining room was a brisk one, Eleanor trailing after Tom while still rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes. Frances was waiting for them both, a polite nod directed their way, and a single place setting laden with food sat at the head of the endless stretch of dining table. Eleanor felt discomfort pricking at the back of her neck. She tapped Tom on the shoulder, tentative. 

“You’re... not eating with me?” She eyed the near-empty table with open trepidation. 

“Afraid not,” he said, and if he weren’t Thomas Shelby, she might say he sounded regretful. “The office awaits.” He stepped to the side, putting a hand at her back and ushering her forward. “You remember where my office is from here?” At her nod, he continued, “Come get me when you’re done eating. I’ll call up the driver.” 

And he was gone. Frances remained, posture perfect, her hands laced behind her back. Eleanor smiled at her—the woman had such a kind face and the smile that curved her own mouth only gentled it further. “Would you have breakfast with me, Frances? If you’re not too busy?” 

“I’d be delighted, miss.” Eleanor shot her a playful look. “Miss Eleanor.” 

Close enough. 

After eating her fill of clementines and grapefruit and exchanging polite conversation with Frances—she had a sister in Staffordshire; Eleanor was trying to tame a wild tabby cat that slept on her fire escape with scraps of food—she made her way to Tom’s office, somehow not getting lost along the way. Truly, a day of small miracles. 

She made it almost to the door when she heard a voice, Tom speaking in low tones to someone over the phone, his voice tense in a way that made Eleanor flinch reflexively at such cold anger, shrinking into herself. The door was open a crack, enough to see the rich wood flooring and the beams of light coming from one of the huge windows, but she didn’t dare go in. A floorboard squealed under her shoe as she took a step back; there was a pause in the terse flow of words from within the office before it picked up again. 

_(In a flicker, she was back in front of a different door: Mother Mary with her open palms, her sweet downturned face having become an omen for what was to come. Grafton’s voice, callous, almost patient, beckoned her inside where he sat at his great big desk, his pale, fine-boned cheek resting on his palm in leisurely anticipation. Like a predator, coiled before it strikes. And his steely eyes in the low-lit room, the belt resting innocently in his spindly hand when she opened the door.)_

Crossing her arms over her chest, throat tight, she resolved to wait there in the drawing-room until she heard he was done, or Tom came out and got her himself. 

The drawing-room was in all pastels, pale blues and creams, ivory accents that popped against the dark wood paneling of the walls. Dripping in crystal from the chandelier to the decorative vases. Off-to-the-side, there was a desk; she strolled over to it, but there wasn’t much there to look at, just a couple bronze paperweights, a lamp. And a book butterflied spine-side up, reading _POEMS_ in great bold letters across the front, followed with “by Wilfred Owen” in a smaller font beneath. Tom hadn’t seemed like a poetry sort of man. She picked it up, flipping it over to find it opened to “Dulce et Decorum Est.” She flicked her eyes over the familiar words, “Bent double, like old beggars under sacks...” 

Mouthing the words to herself, she began wandering throughout the room, too full of nerves from the conversation occurring in the other room to even attempt settling into one of the chairs clustered on the other side of the room. They looked more for beauty than comfort, anyway. 

The hissing of Tom’s conversation dulled to a murmur—but, if anything, that made her own tension rise. It was always worse when it got quiet, the rage more simmering. More honed. Eleanor wondered what had set him off. 

Bouquets of white flowers dotted the room. Chrysanthemums, baby’s breath, and a handful of amaryllises. Before she could think much about it, she found her heels clicking towards the nearest vase. They looked life-like, but she couldn’t imagine the maids wanting to deal with the hassle of keeping so many bouquets alive. There was no apparent smell, either, but after spending so much time in a flower shop, her nose was pretty well shot when it came to such things. 

Only one way to find out for sure. 

Book still in hand, she stopped at the vase at the mantle—besides the vase, there was an ominous statue: a woman depicted in brass dipped into a deep lunge, her hands stretched out high above her head to hold a shallow dish. Eleanor wrinkled her nose at it, noting that she could no longer hear Tom’s voice at all, and after tossing the poetry collection onto the mantle, she reached out with curious fingers to touch a bloom. 

Her fingertips brushed a petal—soft but in that artificial way; _cloth_ —when a hand reached from out-of-sight to snag her forearm. 

Everything happened quick, out-of-body, like the clicking of a film reel. 

Eleanor spun around, heart in her throat, already working herself into a full-bodied flinch. Her fight-or-flight instincts _shrieked_. Her fingers and toes felt icy, her cheeks hot with adrenaline. Her body sprung tight, ready to bolt. 

In front of her, Thomas Shelby studied her wrist with an expression she might call _gutted_ on his subdued features—and maybe slightly troubled on any other man without his iron-clad poise. A flicker of guilt crept into his eyes. Like when he studied her arm before, he twisted it this way and that, fingers a gentle pressure against the fragile skin of her inner arm. 

He was looking at where he’d grabbed her last night, she realized, the mark too young to bruise but already flushed an angry red from broken blood vessels, the imprint in the vague shape of his fingers and the gouge from his thumb already beginning to scab. She must’ve scraped it open again at some point at breakfast, because said scab peeled up at one corner, weeping a glob of coagulated blood. 

Eleanor let out a calming breath, deep enough to rattle her lungs. 

She almost admired his stealth—she’d never heard the door open the rest of the way or even his footsteps. He really was the perfect predator. Eleanor let her coiled posture relax, her arm going limp in his hand. 

“Don’t be so full of yourself,” she said when his gaze didn’t waver from the soon-bruise, the blood, “this is nothing.” _And we both know I’ve had worse._ His eyes flicked up to meet hers and seemed to catch her line of thinking. That response didn’t seem to please him any. His jaw became one severe line from clenched teeth; she wanted to find out if it felt as sharp as it looked but knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. 

“You should put ice on that,” he told her. It sounded almost like an apology. 

“I didn’t even notice until you pointed it out,” Eleanor admitted, having forgotten all about it in the near-hysteria of the morning, but now that it’d been brought to her attention, her wrist _did_ twinge, a deep-seated ache that promised swelling by tomorrow. Experimentally, she flexed in his hold and felt her wrist strain in protest. It throbbed. _Damn._ There went drawing for the next few days. 

Cora was going to throw a _fit._

Tom watched her wiggle her fingers as she tested her range of movement. She told him and his clenched jaw, earnest as she tilted her head to catch his eyes, “Really, no harm done. Barely hurts.” Eleanor smiled at him her signature sunshine smile, the one that got her out of trouble with Sam every time. He seemed shockingly immune, which—rude. But she propelled herself along, anyway, “If anything, it’s my fault. Knew grabbing you like that was a brainless thing to do.” 

He shook his head at her, his thumb sweeping under the scab at her wrist, a near-nonexistent touch. At some point, she must’ve pushed in closer, because an inch more forward and their thighs would meet. 

“Why did you do it, then, hm? Aren’t you supposed to be a smart girl?” His voice was low, conspiratorial. It sent a shiver through her she tamped down. 

Nose-upturned, she replied, all snootiness, “I am a _lady_ , actually.” He chuckled despite himself, the sound rumbling low in his throat, and she grinned up at him, all teeth. Then, she schooled her face into a semblance of sternness. “But seriously, Tom,” she said, jabbing him in the chest with her spare hand. Eleanor felt her face soften at the pucker of his brow; he was still holding her wrist. “Don’t let me become another thing to beat yourself up about.” 

Tom was silent. She couldn’t recall how, but her pointed finger had transformed into a loose fist, clutching the fabric of his vest in her hand, holding him near her. “I did it because—because it wouldn’t be right. Leaving you there like that.” Fierce, she insisted, “I wouldn’t do that.” 

He was doing that thing—where he narrowed his eyes at her like she was a particularly confounding species of bug, foreign and bizarre. She pursed her lips at him in reply. 

“Too soft,” he chided. 

Eleanor groaned, throwing her head back with the force of it. “Yes, and soon, I'll be in bed with all the veterans of Birmingham. Oh, the scandal of it all!” She rolled her eyes. 

“Birmingham women don’t have as much discretion as my maids,” he teased. 

She scoffed, muttering, “Don’t get me started. By now, the whole house probably knows I was in your room with you last night, and I didn’t even get to—” _f_ _uck you._

Eleanor cut herself off. Her mouth closed with an audible click. 

Tom looked too amused for his own good. He leaned in until she stumbled back a step, pressing her flush against the mantle. Smirking, he towered over her, and to her mortification, this was one of the first times in her life that seeing a man looming above her didn’t fill her with a rush of iron-tang fear. 

No, what she was feeling was very, _very_ different from fear, though her heart couldn’t tell the difference. Pounding away in her chest. Her breath came out shaky. 

“Get to what, Eleanor?” Tom asked, a lilt to his words. 

If she leaned up on her tippy-toes, just a bit, he’d be close enough to kiss. 

Eleanor dropped her hand from his chest, averting her eyes. “You said a driver would take me back to Flora’s?” 

She couldn’t get him out of her head the whole way home. 

Cora was already waiting at the door when she arrived back at Flora’s, bedhead undeniable and a headache forming behind her eyes, throbbing in time with the ache of her wrist. She didn’t want to think anymore. The chime of the bell sent pain shooting through her skull, and she bit back a curse just in time for Cora to sweep into action, tugging her the rest of the way through the door with her hands clamped around her upper arms. Eleanor felt her instinctual flinch build at the base of her neck, but she shoveled it down. 

Cora’s light eyes roved her face—searching for signs of damage, maybe. Eleanor could admit to herself that this reaction was more than reasonable; she’d spent the night at the home of a well-known gangster, after all. But she thought of how gentle Tom’s fingers had been on her wrist, the obvious self-loathing in the stiffness of his shoulders, and could barely avoid scoffing over the mother-henning. 

Still, it sent a jolt of warmth through her, fondness folding over her like a blanket. 

She cracked a smile at her boss. “Hello, Cora, good afternoon to you, too.” 

There was the pitter-pattering of footsteps in the backroom, a scuffle, and the sound of clay pots knocking together. Eleanor’s smile stretched into a grin as she called out, “And hello to you, Flora!” 

“Good afternoon, dear,” Cora responded drily. “You seem chipper for someone who just came from the slaughterhouse.” 

“It was a mansion, actually.” 

Florence trotted out from within the backroom, practically skipping, her floppy hair slapping against her cheeks. She was rubbing potting soil off her hands and onto the flowery apron double-knotted around her middle. “Ella!” she cheered at the sight of her. She bounded closer. “You lived!” 

Eleanor laughed and ignored the way it made her head pound. “I didn’t know there was an option where I didn’t.” 

Flora scoffed, shaking her head. With a coltish lack of grace, she flounced up onto the nearest counter-top, nearly toppling a jar of lilies. Cora caught it from veering off the counter without her eyes ever leaving her own. Shrinking, Eleanor couldn’t help but fidget at such a pointed stare narrowed in her direction. 

“You really alright?” Cora asked, voice laden with suspicion. Eleanor tucked her bruised wrist even more into the long sleeve of her sweater, moving to sit on one of the many stools littered throughout the store, this one in particular at the same table Flora sat. 

“Yeah, of course,” she laughed it off, trying not to sweat. Flora swung her feet back-and-forth, fiddling with the head of a daffodil in her bandaged fingers; the soles of her bare feet were black with filth—probably from playing out on the cobbles without shoes again. Cora crossed her arms over her chest, propping herself against a table across from theirs. Neither of them seemed convinced. “Honestly! It was all... fine.” She felt her eyes glaze over, found herself glancing somewhere beyond Cora’s shoulder. In a spark of memory, she recalled the feeling of Tom’s hand in her hair, tucking curls behind her ears. God, but she didn’t know what made her think of it. 

Worse yet, however, was the telltale blush that heated the skin of her cheeks before she could stop it. 

Cora’s blue eyes went blank, though not before flashing with a sort of dangerous insight that sent all the hairs raising along her arms. “Oh, no, no, no, hold on, it’s not—!” Eleanor began, voice wavering, but Cora was already shaking her head. 

“Oh, Eleanor,” she said, and Eleanor’s teeth clacked from how quick her mouth closed. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and gotten sweet on the leader of the Peaky fuckin’ Blinders. I thought you ‘ad better sense than that, now.” Eleanor spluttered. 

“I do!” she insisted, knowing her wild eyes were telling a different story and reaching out a hand like it might derail whatever disaster was occurring before her. It didn’t seem to be working. Florence giggled, tucking away her mouth with a hand. “I have plenty sense. Too much of it, even!” 

“You’re redder than Gram’s roses!” Flora cooed. Eleanor covered her burning face with her hands, elbows on the table. “You really _do_ like him!” _This is a nightmare_. 

Cora gave a mournful sigh, though a hint of a sharp smile curled up the corner of her mouth. Smile lines eased her face into something less severe, yet Eleanor had never dreaded her more. “I know e’s a pretty one, Eleanor, but really...” 

“Cora,” Eleanor begged, peeping through the slots between her fingers. “Please. Don’t make this bigger than it is.” She ran the same hand through her tangled mane of hair, and it got stuck halfway through. Teeth clenched, she bit back a groan. “Tom—Mr. Shelby is a fucking handful, okay? He’s a terror.” And she didn’t sound fond. _She didn’t._ “It’s just... It’s nice, okay? His boy is lovely, and I like the gardens there now that they’re coming together. That’s all.” 

Flora was having none of it. Contemplative, she mumbled, “I guess he’s sort of prince-like if you squint... He’s got the carriage with his nice car. And he’s handsome... in a devil kind of way. And all that money! But I’d say he’s more of a dragon than a prince, really.” She smirked, the expression strange and fey on her girlish features. Eleanor leveled her with a wary eye. “Though, y’ know, Ella _is_ pretty as a princess.” 

_Oh, come on._ Cackling, Cora quipped, “Hoarding all that wealth to ‘imself... I’d say dragon fits, Flora.” The grin flashed in Eleanor’s direction made her wince in anticipated embarrassment. “A princess in the clutches of a dragon—yeah, that’d be just your luck, wouldn’t it be, dear?” 

“I’m going to my room,” Eleanor announced, throwing up both her hands in defeat, and listened to their laughter trailing after her all the way up the steps. 

There was no way to explain the restlessness in her blood, the next few hours she spent pacing her apartment, head in her hands and the place behind her eyes thrumming with pain and pressure. Amidst her pacing, her eye caught a glimpse of cream china, delicate pink flowers: an all-too-familiar teacup and along with it, the brief memory of Thomas Shelby’s lips kissing the rim in a sip. 

“Fuck me,” she hissed, snapping her head away from the sight, raking her nails through her hair with her scalp stinging in protest. 

No use lying in bed—she'd tried that, swan-dived into the sheets fully-clothed once she’d made it up the stairs. But her leg kept bouncing, her body jumping with phantom touches until she felt so suffocated, she wrestled out of her clothes, nearly choking on the rolled-up snake of her blouse before she managed to yank it over her head. 

So, here she was, pacing in her tiny apartment in nothing but her underthings, scowling at a teacup. _A teacup._ It mocked her. Eleanor flicked her eyes up to the ceiling and said to no one in particular, “I need to get out of here.” Outside, the sky was growing dark, a sludgy navy-grey that hung heavy in the air; she’d been at this for a while now, too long. 

_I need to get drunk._

The next fifteen minutes was a flurry of motion, throwing the meager wardrobe she’d brought with her this way and that as she searched for something to wear. She tossed about skirts and tops, a few dresses, creating a small mountain of fabric on her floor. Finally, she settled on a cream blouse with a peter-pan collar, all golden embroidery. 

And then, some fucking trousers. Brown tweed, an old pair of Sam’s she’d taken in and hemmed and probably the favorite item of clothing she owned—the very sort of thing that might get her in trouble. _Good_ , she thought, vicious as she toed on her boots. At least her mind might be occupied. With that thought in mind—keeping her mind occupied, whatever the cost—she grabbed a book off her bedside table. 

This was how she ended up outside the Old Wharf, red-lipped and still bed-headed, armed only with a book in hand and the desire to drink herself into such a stupor she wouldn’t even be able to read the fucking thing when she was through, her literature degree from London University be damned. Until she wouldn’t be able to think of blue eyes and large hands or the feeling of her thighs stretched wide over a warm lap, nor princesses and dragons and whatever the fuck else. None of it. _None._

The November air broke her out into goosebumps, snapping against the skin of her cheeks even as she shuffled into the bar, the gust of wind it created flinging her into a full-body shudder. She should’ve put on a heavier coat. 

Eleanor walked into a commotion already in full swing, no help from her or her trousers needed, a dozen feminine voices raised in shared outrage; a crowd of short-cut bobs loomed over a balding, middle-aged man, sweat gathering into the grooves of his forehead. 

She paused in the doorway. A series of men in their oil-stained work clothes scowled at the walls, at each other, shoulders hunched up to their ears like scolded children, all ducked down into their barstools, heads tilted towards their tables and drinks. Some wrung their hands as though waiting for the smack of a ruler. 

One voice cut through the crowd, not deafening in volume though sharp enough to pierce any man that leaned in too close, breathed too loud: “Really, sir, is a woman not entitled to a drink after a long day’s work?” 

“Miss Eden,” the bartender said, and Eleanor’s ears perked. She’d heard that name before—something Cora had said. All she remembered was the edge of pride in the woman’s tone when she’d said it—Jessie Eden—dark and pleased like the very name curled itself around her tongue to savor. Eleanor edged closer. 

“Miss Eden, you’re welcome t’ drink,” the man continued, tugging at his collar, sticking to his skin with dampness. “But only with someone under your arm. Y’ know women can’t be here all alone. That’s the rule.” 

Jessie Eden, up close, was all delicate features, almost too small to be behind the name that made Cora’s face take on that predatory edge of glee. A round, full mouth pursed in displeasure, dark hair and darker eyes. Pretty and made prettier by the danger that sparked hot in the narrowing of her eyes, moments away from kindling. She stood with a straight back and her shoulders level, hands at her sides. Eleanor looked at her and, for the first time in a while, felt a prickle of desire that didn’t arrive unwanted. It licked up her spine, made her limbs loose. 

Jessie Eden cocked her head, and _there_ , there was that flame catching in the depths of her stare. It made the whites of her eyes even brighter, lit her face in a glow that transformed it into something other, something with too-sharp teeth. Eleanor’s mouth went dry. “Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not alone,” Eden said, that crisp accent of hers almost making the threat sing out sweet. The man darted his eyes to the other women, rough-looking women who looked like they needed a drink days ago. 

They got their drinks. 

The bartender didn’t bother fighting Eleanor once she slinked her way to the bar, worn-out wrinkles gathering at his eyes and a twitch to his fingers as he eyed up all the women now clustered in one of the dark corners of his bar; he merely curled his lip at the sight of her trousers. Eleanor smiled at him. She tucked her book beneath one arm and said, “Irish whiskey” around the baring of her teeth. 

She slid far too much money his way. “The whole bottle, I think.” He perked up in an instant, his mustache bristling in a bitten-back grin. 

The lowball glass was some cheap thing, not much heft to it—nothing like the crystal of the Garrison. But the whiskey burned a trail of heat down her throat, pooling in her chest and fanning out like fingers spanned wide in a hug, and that was all she needed. Eleanor knocked it back in one swig, poured herself another two fingers' worth. Maybe more like three. 

_The Turn of the Screw_ wasn’t her first choice in a novella, but it was what she picked up in her hurry. It’s not like it mattered, not really. 

A few pages in, there was a voice by her ear, the sound of a bar stool squealing across the floor. Eleanor jumped. “That’s a terrible book.” She turned her head, sluggish from the whiskey that bogged it down. 

It was Jessie Eden, her dark eyes. Even prettier up close. 

Eleanor laughed, watching how Eden smiled in reply, all crooked and charming as she tucked a piece of hair behind one ear. Off-to-the-side, polishing glasses, the bartender was scowling. “Oh?” she asked, the laugh lingering in her words, “You think so?” 

“Oh, I know so,” Eden replied, propping her chin on one hand, her pint glass by her elbow. Eleanor crinkled her nose at the sight of it. Beer really was just piss-water. “And anyhow, who _reads_ literature at a bar?” 

Eleanor wigged her fingers, all laziness. “Me, apparently.” 

“What for?” 

“To avoid people, mainly,” she confessed, though she softened the blow of her words with a smile. Eden didn’t appear offended, just huffed a laugh. 

“Want me to leave you alone with Henry James? He’s a real riot.” 

She hid her smile behind the rim of her glass. Maybe she wouldn’t need more than three glasses to have a good time tonight. “Bit late for that, I think. You’ve intrigued me.” Eleanor watched as Eden cocked her head, tossing her bangs into her eyes; she batted them away with her lashes. Her fingers twitched. 

“Have I, now?” Something bubbled up beneath Eden’s voice, catching in her ears. _Is she flirting with me?_ Her eyes were big and brown in the dim lighting, cut through by a thicket of half-lowered lashes. Her knee was close enough to bump against her own. 

“You have,” Eleanor confirmed. “I’ve gotta know, now. Why don’t you like _The_ _Turn of the Screw_ Thought it would be to your taste, Miss Eden.” 

Eleanor remembered why Cora had mentioned her name now, why her eyes had taken that wicked gleam. This waif-like woman was the communist organizer that Cora gushed over, the unionist who organized an all-women's strike, filling the streets of Birmingham with the beat of heeled boots. 

Eden didn’t seem bothered that she knew her name. “Why d’ you say that, Miss....?” she trailed off, eyes on her bare ring finger. Eleanor tapped it against the wood of the counter. 

“Eleanor,” she told her. Eden outstretched a hand. Eleanor took it. Her hand was warm, palm wider than Eleanor’s, fingers longer, her nubby nails grazing the skin of her wrist. Goosebumps prickled. 

“Eleanor,” Eden repeated, phrasing it as an address, her eyes crinkled. “Pleased to meet you. Why the ever-loving fuck would I like _The Turn of the Screw_?” 

Eleanor laughed, abrupt, reluctant to let go of the hand in hers. She slipped away from the grasp nonetheless, fingers and palms trailing as they pulled apart. 

“I figured the class relations would intrigue you. I mean—the potential for a Marxist interpretation of the text is right there!” she gushed, gesturing with the book, flapping the pages in Eden’s direction like some half-wit bird taking flight. “Just,” and here she fluttered her free hand in Eden’s direction; the other woman huffed out a laugh, “don’t you think it’s interesting that the only ghosts of the whole novella aren’t—aren’t the children’s wealthy parents or anything like that, but instead those of the lower class? The servant, the governess? Those already rendered invisible?” 

Jessie hummed, head tilted. She took a sip of her drink, wet her lips with her pink tongue, and added, “But governesses have more potential for social mobility than lower-class servants. They’re usually middle class—it's why they’re educated in the first place.” 

Eleanor lit up, nodding. “Exactly! And doesn’t that make the governess’ horror even more fascinating? Is it really over their ghoulish ways, or is it more about the illicit nature of the relationship between Jessel and Quint as two people of different social strata?” 

This went on for a while, Eleanor getting more and more animated and Jessie Eden becoming more bright-eyed in reply. Soon, they were leaned in close enough Eleanor could feel her breath on her cheek, their knees bumping. “So, you really like _The Turn of the Screw_ ,” Eden said, and now her hand was on Eleanor’s thigh, just above the knee. 

Eleanor swallowed, then admitted dryly, “Not at all. It’s pretty boring for a ghost story.” Eden laughed, ruffling her bangs with the force of it. 

She shook her head. “Could’ve fooled me.” They smiled at each other for a minute, just looking, Eden’s fingers digging into the fabric of her pant leg. Then Eden blinked, seemingly shaking herself, and that hand was gone, though the memory of the gentle pressure, the heat from her palm lingered. The other woman cleared her throat. 

“You're not from around here,” Eden blurted out, a clear prod in her tone. “I’d’ve noticed you if you were.” Eleanor grinned, feeling her cheeks grow hot, and took a sip of her whiskey, savoring the burn. 

“I’m new to the area.” She nodded her head in a vague direction. Everything was soft and warm, her mind running like the drizzle of honey, thick, suspended in slow motion. “I work down at Flora’s.” 

A long pause. There was a sharpness to Eden’s features that wasn’t there before, a jerk of her dark brows. “Wouldn’t have guessed that.” Eleanor gave her a slow blink in reply. 

“Why’s that?” 

“Didn’t think a florist could afford a bracelet that expensive. Or a whole bottle of whiskey that it looks like she can’t even finish.” 

“To be fair,” Eleanor quipped, “at least it’s not scotch.” But, sure enough, she stared down at the dainty links of gold around her wrist, it’s engravings of lavender, the glimmer amethyst inlaid into fronds. A gift from Sam—things like this always were. “And for all you know—this thing could be an old heirloom.” She jingled the jewelry at her wrist; Eden arched a brow, unimpressed. Eleanor chuckled. 

“But you’re right. I definitely don’t get paid that kind of money from working at the shop.” _I don’t get paid at_ _all_ , she didn’t say. She hefted a shoulder. “Family money.” 

That sharp look grew sharper. Eleanor bit at her cheek, fighting a smile. “And do you think you’ve earned that wealth?” It was a rude question. It was refreshing. 

“Not at all,” she admitted, smile wry. “Just luck, circumstance of birth. But don’t worry, Miss Eden, I’ll lower my head for the chopping block of your revolution when the time comes.” 

“Just Jessie,” she said. There was a funny twist to her mouth when she added, no question in sight, “You’re being sincere.” 

“About going to the guillotine? Sure.” Eleanor shrugged. “I believe in your cause—I thought all the rambling just now would’ve made that clear.” 

“Academics discuss Marxism because it’s fashionable,” Jessie said, “not because they believe in revolution.” Eleanor winced, not able to disagree. 

“Well, I’m not like that. I’m with you—that people should own the means of production. That everyone should make a living wage and have the bare necessities—at the very least. I didn’t always have money, y’ know. I know what it’s like to have to go without.” There was a pause where they locked each other into a stare, the second one of the night, brown-on-brown. Tension coiled around her shoulders, the air hung heavy in the bar, claustrophobic. Like taking in a breath under a thick quilt, each one more clogged than the last. Then, Eleanor winked. “And anyway, it could be interesting.” 

Jessie snorted, the oppressive atmosphere diffusing along with it. “Getting your head lopped off?” 

“What else?” 

“You’re odd,” Jessie said, smiling, and with an incline of her chin—Eleanor’s fingers twitched at the long white line of her throat—ran her eyes over the bar, far emptier than before. She followed the direction of her gaze. Most of the women had left, she noted. 

Jessie’s voice dipped into a whisper. “Would you—” She cut off, coughed, her face oddly flushed, and Eleanor tried scrounging up her most encouraging smile. Jessie’s face steeled. She cleared her throat and straightened up her posture. “Would you like to finish this conversation at my flat? It’s getting late.” She fidgeted with her hands, and beneath the lip of the bar, pressed their legs more snuggly together. Eleanor chewed on her lip, eyes on the way Eden’s fingers laced and unlaced, the nimble twist and untwist. 

“Yeah,” she told her, voice soft, “I’d like that.” 

Jessie smiled, a different smile than before—quiet, soft, contrasting a flash of white teeth digging into her bottom lip—and she felt her stomach clench, fizzing and too-familiar, warmer and lower than booze could ever manage. 

Her apartment was cute, though the spiral of rickety stairs had her puffing out air in gusts before they ever reached the door. Jessie’s fingers had trembled on the doorknob before she twisted the key into the lock. Anticipation shivered up her spine, then, made the clinging of cold air from outside sting even sharper. 

Jessie hung up their coats on a hook, and squinting in the near-black, Eleanor peeped around. 

Inside, it was cluttered in that homey way, so much more familiar than the perfect orderliness of Arrow House. She shoved that thought away. Everything was all warm light, sepia-toned wallpaper, and a gold-fringed lamp Jessie went to go turn on. Her eyes immediately caught on an arrangement of old, antique plates, its chipped fine china bordered in flowers. Eleanor kept back by the door, skating her eyes over everything—the bookshelf of random titles, the patterned tablecloth draping a small table, the bed with the sturdy frame off to the left, covered in quilts. It looked cozy. 

“I have beer,” Jessie said, sudden and stiff as she turned back to her, shifting on her feet. Her face was dappled in golden light, and Eleanor tilted her head, watched the way she worried her bottom lip into redness. She was beautiful, but she knew that already. Eleanor stared maybe a beat too long. 

The tops of her cheeks flushed in reply, going pinker and pinker under her gaze—it was cute, unexpected. That shyness. She felt a sort of languid heat fold itself over her that had nothing to do with the whiskey, which had turned into only a faint buzz curling a haze over her eyes. 

“Is that really what you want?” Eleanor asked, and she could hear her own voice dip into a lower register, slow and sweet. She took a step closer. Jessie stared at her for a minute, lip wedged between her teeth, and then she grinned. Wicked and pleased. Eleanor blinked, startled. 

“ _God_ , no.” 

In a few strides, the other woman had her backed into the door, her shoulder blades thunking against the wood. Her breath left her in a rush, and at that moment, Jessie’s mouth was catching hers, her hand cupping her jaw. Eleanor melted. 

Their mouths slotted together easy—the benefit of being almost the same height, she realized with a thrill of surprise and delight; Lou had been so _tall_ she had been made to get on her tippy toes—and there was a hint of teeth, a bright shock of pain near perfect, a bruising pressure that had her gasping, high and loud, against her lips. Jessie’s fingers spasmed against her jaw, her mouth parting, her tongue flicking against her bottom lip, and then— 

Jessie pulled back in a jerk, her mouth puffy, a smear of Eleanor’s red lipstick. Eleanor flinched at the abrupt movement, blinking in a daze, her hand hovering where she’d almost tangled it in the woman’s dark hair. “I’ve neighbors,” Jessie panted, her eyes locked onto Eleanor’s, imploring. 

“Alright,” she responded, slow, brain fuzzy, brows furrowed. Red was a good color on her, she noted, half-coherent. Her lips tingled. 

Jessie huffed, looking briefly, terribly ashamed—her eyes darting to the side, her lip again being pulled between her teeth. Grimacing, Eleanor thumbed at it until she let it free, and when Jessie looked back at her, finally, something in her eyes went gooey, soft. She stroked at her cheek; Eleanor leaned into the touch. “I’m the leader of the local communist party,” she explained, her voice so quiet. “I can’t exactly—” 

Something in her brain clicked. “Ah,” she said, and at the frown dipping the corners of Jessie’s mouth, she laid her hand overtop the one on her face, stroked at its knuckles. “Hey,” she soothed, “no need to make such a face. I understand. I can be quiet.” She wasn’t really the loud type, anyway. 

Slumping in relief, Jessie played with the collar of her shirt, moving it aside and tracing the thin skin of her collarbone. Eleanor shivered. “Yeah?” she asked, pleased. She’d ducked her head until she was the one peering up at Eleanor through the black of her lashes. 

She shot her a smirk in reply. “Yeah,” she confirmed, and wrapping her arms around her, tugged her flush against her own body. “But can you?” 

With a laugh, Jessie Eden crashed their mouths back together, fighting back her grin with the nip of teeth. She pulled back enough once to mutter, “We’ll have to see,” before Eleanor whined at her, near-silent, her hands knotting into her hair as she yanked her back in again, an easy glide of waxy lipstick. 

Jessie licked into her mouth, just shy of filthy, her tongue flicking against her teeth, tickling the roof of her mouth, and Eleanor hadn’t realized how much she needed this ‘til now—nothing but sensation and heat, her head abuzz with dizziness, and Jessie Eden’s hand sneaking up her shirt to palm one of her breasts, their skin kept apart only by a gauzy camisole and nothing else. She tasted like shitty beer and something minty sweet. 

Jessie took a step back, their lips parting in a string of spit and a smacking sound, deafening in the silent room, her mouth a true ruin of red now, the air between them thick with their quiet gasps. Just before she could protest though, sneaking for another kiss, Jessie grabbed her by the chin, stifling any sound and shutting her jaw with a click, complaint turned into a groan, one hand reaching to clap over her mouth as soon as her lips dipped down to her neck. 

The kisses started off gentle, feather-light. Little pecks trailing down, down, careful like she was placing one on each freckle. Eleanor whimpered behind her palm, shaking, leaning into her touch like she was starved for it. Jessie laughed, nipped once. Then again. Her teeth scraped against her skin, and Eleanor couldn’t see herself, but she could imagine it—remnants of red lipstick smearing down her throat, garish, almost macabre. Under her shirt, Jessie’s fingers scratched lines down her stomach, sticky with sweat, and it jumped, sick with jitters. 

Jessie sucked a spot just below her jaw, swirling her tongue. It sounded fucking obscene—she couldn’t even hear herself, not anymore, but could feel her throat straining, little whining sounds half-caught before they could form moans. 

Jessie bit down, hard and mean, and Eleanor _keened_. 

“Bed,” Eleanor gasped, digging her nails into the nape of her neck. Jessie groaned, nodding into her neck, mumbling _uh-huh, uh-huh._ She pushed herself off the door; the hinges creaked in protest. “Bed, now.” 

The next moments were a blur of hands and the croak of the floorboards, the two of them giggling and stumbling to the bed between stolen kisses. Eleanor’s hand navigated from her hair to her waist, plucking at her floral blouse until it untucked from her skirt. She unhooked eyelets with unsteady fingers, one-then-two-then-three, half-way down her torso before the backs of Jessie’s legs thumped against her bedframe. They smiled at each other, just for a moment, stupid and ridiculous and way too wide: her hands fiddling with an eyelet, Jessie’s thumb against the hummingbird of her pulse, circling and circling the skin until her whole body shuddered. 

Eleanor gave her a playful shove, a barely-there pressure; Jessie mocked a tumble into bed. Totally graceless. Eleanor laughed deep in her chest, clapping a hand over her mouth, and the other woman grinned up at her, dark hair in flicks all about her face. Her eyes flickered in the lamplight. She admired her like that—just for a moment—her gaping blouse and bitten mouth, limbs splayed out all akimbo, her skirt rode up and revealing the tops of her sheer stockings. Her legs dangled off the bed. Jessie inclined her head. _Get over here._

Eleanor got over there. 

She didn’t settle down, though—she got to work instead, undoing garters, tugging at her waistband. Jessie obliged her, lifting her hips until she could shimmy the skirt off her, falling to the floor in a pool of dark green fabric. Eleanor slid her hands down slim thighs until Jessie raised her legs, one-at-a-time, for her to unbuckle her shoes, taking them and the stockings off in one smooth go. Then, her bloomers. 

They stayed silent for this. Jessie looked so good, it made her knees go weak—her neck bent back in a daze, baring her throat, and her eyes low-lidded, set on Eleanor. It sparked a frisson of, of _something_ through her, maybe both excitement and fright; she loved it when she got to take care of people who always took care of themselves, when she got to feel the tension, the _fire_ seeping out of them under her hands. When she could get under their skin. There was nothing more powerful than that: watching predators retract their teeth, made docile as kittens after a few pets, a few sugary words. 

Now, it was just Jessie, still lounging back on the bed but propped up on her elbows, in nothing but her mostly undone blouse and a bandeau beneath, a measly strip of shell pink. She was flushed down to her chest. And God, Eleanor _wanted_. Her fingers itched. 

Eleanor swept forward, her knees slotted in between Jessie’s thighs, splayed open wide, and just like that, Jessie was sitting as well, tugging at the remaining clasps until they hung loose shrugging off the damn thing in one smooth go. Eleanor touched the bare skin of her forearms, gripping on either side, and both sighed at once, going liquid. 

Jessie leaned in for a kiss, but Eleanor aimed lower. 

She bit at the top of one breast, tracing its subtle curve with her tongue before biting down again. Only pressing a kiss to the sting when she heard Jessie hiss, her hips jumping. She smoothed her thumb over the other’s nipple, peaking through the thin rayon of her bandeau. Jessie squirmed at the touch; Eleanor laughed against her skin, pinching and rolling that same bud just to hear her yelp. “I’ll come back to these later, I think,” she said, mock-thoughtful, and moved up to mouth at a collarbone. Jessie cursed, fisting her hair tight in her grip and _tugging_ up, sharp and sudden. Vengeful. One of Eleanor’s hands stuttered from where it was skimming down the curve of her waist, clenching at the dip of her ribs, her breath hitching at the sweet sing of pain that raced through her scalp. 

Eleanor raked her fingers down her ribs in reply. Jessie squeaked, wiggling away, voicing catching with giggles. All went still. 

“Ticklish?” Eleanor asked, delighted. Casting big eyes up at her. 

Jessie scowled, but it was edged in warmth. 

“And if I am? Aren’t you?” 

She very adamantly did not think about the hollows behind her knees. “No,” she lied, smiling against her throat. She didn’t try and tickle her again. Jessie scoffed. 

“Right,” she said, wry. She paused, then. “And what about you?” She pulled her back by her hair, smirking. “You’re not being very fair, are you? You’re still all dressed up.” 

In a rush, Eleanor felt her face go pale. A phantom ache settled over her, getting its hooks into her shoulder blades, settling deep in her lower back. Prickling her arms. She thought about how Jessie’s face might look—what she might see with the light still on. Self-disgust, thick as mud, choked her throat. Her wrist twinged. 

_It’s always the fucking mud, isn’t it?_

Stop it. Don’t go there— _don't_. 

She breathed in through her nose, muscled on a leer. “Oh, but I’ve got plans,” Eleanor purred, and in a smooth movement, dropped to her knees on the floor. Dragging Jessie with her until her ass nearly hung off the bed. 

Settled in-between the cradle of her thighs, she peered up at her, faux demure, let some of her red curls obscure her eyes. She swayed in close, lined up her lips with the jut of a hipbone. “That alright with you, baby?” Jessie’s eyes were blown wide. 

“More than,” Jessie breathed, and Eleanor _smiled_ , too much teeth. 

“Good,” she hummed against her skin, felt her stomach jump with the vibrations of it. “Lay back for me, then.” 

Jessie obeyed, staying propped up on her elbows, roving her face. She looked as starved as Eleanor felt. 

With her hands, Eleanor spread her open, fingers gripping the bottom of her thighs until her mouth was at level with her hips. Jessie’s legs hooked over her shoulder. Up this close, she could feel the heat of her. Eleanor dipped her head, feeling her shudder run through her as well, and placed a kiss on the juncture between her pelvis and thigh, tasting salt and sweat. Her lipstick was long gone by now. She nibbled, sucking bruises in the soft, thin skin of her inner thighs until Jessie was writhing for it, letting out little gasps that went straight to her head. 

Jessie wound a hand in her hair, clenching and unclenching her fingers. Eleanor hummed her approval. “C’mon,” she whined. “Eleanor, _please_.” She liked the politeness. 

Eleanor buried her face between her thighs and, parting her lips with her fingers in one smooth go, licked a broad, messy stroke down the whole of her, gathering wetness on her tongue. It was musky, skin and sweat and _fucking perfect_ , the taste of her arousal. 

Jessie’s hips jerked, like her body wasn’t sure if it wanted to rut into it or flinch away, dropping from her elbows back fully onto the bed. She whined out Eleanor’s name, high-pitched and garbled behind a bitten fist. Eleanor dug her fingers into the meat of her thighs and lapped at her clit, little kitten licks; they made her grind her hips against her mouth, seeking more, more, _more_. Eleanor didn’t give it to her. 

She was whining now, breathless little sounds, her teeth set against her knuckles. Eleanor could see her even from down here, her chest heaving, skin a blotchy pink. Her head tossed back, mouth parted in sighs she couldn’t bite down. Coated in a sheen of sweat, glowing in the dim light. God, the sight of her alone made her wet—her own thighs felt sticky, uncomfortable in her trousers; she rubbed them together, moaning a little despite herself, ignoring it as best she could while she circled her tongue around Jessie’s clit, swirling and swirling. She didn’t want this to be about her. Her jaw ached. 

The sounds alone made her _burn_. 

The sting of her hair being yanked made her eyes water, tears clumping her lashes together. It was getting hard to breathe, nose against her public bone, pressed into a patch of dark curls. Jessie kept pushing her head down, down. Eleanor let her. This— _this_ is what she had needed. Her head felt fuzzy. _Fuck Henry James._

She felt Jessie start clenching up and, with one last lave at her clit, moved down—Jessie moaned in frustration, trying to draw her in closer, her legs locked around her head—dipping into her entrance, pointing her tongue. 

Jessie was saying something, her voice muffled from where her thighs clamped around her ears, strained whispers going high-pitched and breathy, needy, something like _your fingers, please, please_ —And Eleanor could get with the program. 

She slipped a finger in alongside her tongue—it pressed in so easy; she was so wet, she was dripping—curling it up until it brushed against her walls, and the sound Jessie made might’ve been a sob, wrenched out her with such a force, her back arched with it. Eleanor licked in deeper. 

Jessie started making hurt, punched out sounds. Her body trembled on the edge. 

Feeling generous, she licked her way back up to Jessie’s clit. She added another finger in the place of her tongue, crooking them together until Jessie couldn’t make any noise at all, she was biting down so hard on her knuckles. Slick, fucking sounds grew loud in the quiet. Eleanor was sure her cheeks were red, though she could always blame it on the heat. 

Eleanor’s wrist strained, hurting with a keen tenderness. 

She couldn’t remember why that mattered. 

Hitching gasps escaped Jessie’s lips, ragged and raw. Eleanor sucked her clit into her mouth, fast and cruel, setting it against the very edge of her teeth—and that was it. Jessie clenched down on her fingers, her cries escaping through the gaps of her fingers. She shivered from head-to-toe; her heels kicking Eleanor in the lower back. 

Eleanor cleaned her with steady sweeps of her tongue until Jessie whined, overstimulated, twitching away and swatting her in the back with a foot; she rubbed circles onto her hip. She couldn’t think. 

Eleanor came up for air with wetness coating her chin, her hair a riot about her face, and a little giddy from lack of air. She let go of her legs. Jessie was up in seconds, still shaking in these minute shudders, drawing her in for a messy kiss. Tasting herself on Eleanor’s lips. 

They pulled back to breathe. They were grinning, absolutely silly. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Jessie said, sudden, her voice all hoarse. Eleanor blinked. She just had. “I should’ve gotten you a pillow—for your knees.” Now that she mentioned it, her knees _did_ hurt, a bit. Eleanor snorted, shaking her head. 

“I clearly didn’t fuck you hard enough if you can still worry about my knees.” 

Jessie’s laugh bubbled up, then, brilliant—pealing out so loud the neighbors had to have heard. Eleanor tucked her grin into her shoulder. _She couldn’t think._ It was— _fucking stunning._

It didn’t last near long enough. 

Hours later, running very late for a morning shift, clutching pastries in her arms—her hair in its worst state yet, the pounding of fresh-formed bruises in time with her stomping feet—Eleanor bursts into Flora’s to that damn ringing of the bell. 

And to Tom’s familiar black coat, three heads instead of two swiveling in her direction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good for her

**Author's Note:**

> we're in for the long haul now lmao  
> written by ali, art by kailee  
> tumblr: @kai-n-ali  
> kailee's twitter: @GGKailee13245


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